


Hero Complex

by AddyCat, rmzsquirtle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, BAMF Narcissa Black Malfoy, Bisexual Ginny Weasley, Blaise Zabini is a Good Friend, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Draco Malfoy is Bad at Feelings, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Everyone Is Gay, Gay Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter is Bad at Feelings, Lesbian Pansy Parkinson, Lucius Malfoy's A+ Parenting, Luna Lovegood is a Good Friend, M/M, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Minor Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, Minor Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, Oblivious Draco Malfoy, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Silver Trio, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Top Harry, everyone is bad at feelings, in the past
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:08:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21882031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AddyCat/pseuds/AddyCat, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rmzsquirtle/pseuds/rmzsquirtle
Summary: Harry fucking Potter hadn’t changed one bloody bit since the war; he was still a smug, good for nothing jock with a hero complex--and while Draco knew a part of him was indebted to the Chosen One, he couldn’t bring himself to swallow his pride just yet.OR: Harry Potter is the auror that saved Draco Malfoy from spending a lifetime in Azkaban -- and the Malfoy heir himself hates every second of it. Three years after the war and they're still at each other's throats like no time had passed at all so when the dearly loathed duo are forced to spend time together, Draco is sure it will be nothing but agony. After all, how could anything involving Potter & his goddamn hero complex be anything but torture?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 14
Kudos: 87





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! This is a fic I started quite a while ago then promptly deleted, but I'm going to give it another go. My first drarry fic so pls be gentle with me!

“Overall, how would you describe your mood today, Mister Malfoy?”

A beat of tense silence settled in the room, thick and suffocating as the man in question flared his nostrils with a sharp inward breath. _That’s the million dollar question, now isn’t it_ , he thought to himself. The scathing bite of sarcasm balanced at the tip of his tongue, but the blonde knew better; instead, teeth clenched hard enough to cause the muscle in his jaw to jump. 

The easy answer was _bad_. 

The proper answer, however, was far more nuanced than Draco had the patience to articulate. He was uneasy, to say in the least, and the knot clenching and unclenching within the pit of his stomach still had yet to knock off its incessant annoyance. The unyielding dread that had settled deep into his bones continued to gnaw away at his insides--and no matter how much he tried, Draco couldn’t quite shake it off. The anxiety and paranoia had become quaint little buddies of his, interjecting into his thoughts with ease to berate him no matter where he went. It was irritating at best and immobilizing at worst. He couldn't quite fathom how he, _the_ Draco Malfoy, had managed to become nothing more than a blithering idiot filled to the very brim with nervousness. 

It was infuriating. 

The woman seated neatly before him had her dark gaze trained on the notepad settled in her lap, a careful hand taking notes to fill the stretch of silence between them. Draco almost wanted to scoff. _Almost_ . He knew that his scheduled therapy sessions were meant to _rehabilitate_ and _reform_ him from a Death Eater and into a functioning, proper, and _safe_ member of society--but each passing second only felt more and more like a waste of his time. 

_Stupid Potter_. 

It was always his fault. Every bad thing that happened in Draco’s life had been, in some shape, way, form, or degree, Potter’s fault. Damn Potter, with his ratty hair and too-small glasses. That Potter was equal parts idiot and foolhardy, leaving chaos wherever the went--

“Mister Malfoy?”

Gray eyes snapped back into focus. Draco hadn't realized just how tightly his teeth has clenched until he finally released the tension, the muted _pop_ of his jaw following suit. The woman seated before him regarded him with a look that could only be described as expressionless by the untrained eye. But Draco knew better. 

He could read the slight lines of irritation around her mouth and the impatience between her thin lips as they pressed together. Not that he could entirely blame her. 

It couldn’t be easy on her. Draco was not the type of man to open up. 

Vulnerability was weakness--a lesson he had been taught far before the darkness of the war had seized his life and left it in shambles. 

But then again, what did he know? The Wizengamot had voted unanimously that his damaged, used-to-be-a-Death-Eater ass deserved to see a _professional_ , or some such bullshit, in order to avoid a hefty sentence in Azkaban. 

Draco had originally seen this as a gift. But now, he would have much rather been kissed by a dementor or ten than be subjected to this woman’s vaguely disappointed state. 

“I’m fine.” It was a lie spoken with complete clarity and ease in spite of the tension still coiled within the blonde’s frame. Draco even offered a shrug to validate what he meant. 

He could tell that wasn't the answer she had been hoping to get, but her expression remained passive. Even as her thin hand moved to pen more notes-- _on Merlin knew what_ , Draco thought to himself with a grimace. 

“And how would you say you feel compared to our last visit?”

This time, he didn't bother masking his scoff of annoyance. “I wouldn't say that in any more _thrilled_ than I was last time.” The reluctance mixing with irritation pricking Draco’s voice wasn't lost on the poor woman--who could only hold back a sigh in response. 

A small stretch of silence and the familiar sound of pen etching against paper followed as Draco finally exhaled the breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding the entire visit thus far. The blonde seemed to deflate in that moment, squared shoulder sagging and clenched jaw finally falling slack, as his tall frame slouched against the back of the couch. The entire process of seeing a shrink seemed rather pointless in Draco’s eyes; while the Ministry had taken quite a bit of care in selecting a professional perfectly suited for his needs, the fair-haired man couldn’t help but feel as if everything was in vain.

The woman--Dr. Caudwell was her name--was an allied professional within the muggle field of psychology, and while her primary line of work focused on the non-magical population of London, she was also a squib. Squibs, while generally excluded from much of the magical world, were still almost painfully aware of the current events plaguing wizardkind. 

Namely, the most recent War.

Even more specifically, the War in which Draco had been an instrumental pawn for destruction.

Conclusion: Draco was sure Dr. Caudwell was intimately familiar with exactly why he was here in the first place.

“Draco…”

Oh, Merlin--he knew that voice. The tired, boneless tone of resignation and defeat. It was the same cadence his mother used when she had grown far too exhausted with Draco’s nitpicking and complaining and hearing that same lull leave Dr. Caudwell’s lips was enough for Draco to pointedly look away. The walls came flying up once more, muscles tensing and jaw closing tightly.

“I understand this situation is far from ideal… but you know _they_ want to see… a bit of progress.”

He didn’t need her to elaborate on who _they_ were. The Ministry couldn’t ever afford him with a break, now could they?

Draco found himself intensely fascinated by a piece of chipped paint on the wall just behind Dr. Caudwell’s head, lips pressed together into a thin line. _Progress_ . The very word had left a bitter taste on his tongue, a vile reminder of sleepless nights spent in rooms hidden from the untrained eye as he forced every ounce of the magic in his veins to focus on mystical cabinets and spells. _Progress_ meant he was one step closer to falling apart. _Progress_ meant he was that much more liable to topple over in defeat. _Progress_ meant that he was giving in to the expectations set upon him.

And goddammit, he was _tired_ of it.

If it weren’t for that damn Potter and his intolerable hero complex, he wouldn’t even be here, having to submit himself to the Ministry’s iron will. He was supposed to be grateful to that spectacled buffoon for saving his skin from Azkaban--and yet, all Draco could feel was disdain. He didn’t want to bend to anyone else any longer. He was Draco fucking Malfoy, for Merlin’s sake, and Draco Malfoy didn’t take orders.

 _Progress be damned_ , the blonde thought sourly to himself. I’m not their damn toy.

Despite his study of the chipping paint--the wall was a rather ghastly shade of off-yellow behind the shocking white pain, he noted--Draco could vaguely register the swing of Dr. Caudwell’s bob as she shook her head ever so slightly. She was speaking to him again, the blonde knew, but he didn’t care enough to listen this time around. There were only a few more agonizing minutes left for today’s session and the more Draco blocked her out, the less inclined he felt in participating. This was his fourth weekly visit but he had no intention of exposing the treachery of the war and just how deeply the pain of it ran. Not now, not soon, and hopefully--not ever. 

“--and I hope you feel better next week.”

Those last few words were all Draco heard before his tall frame immediately shot up to his feet, back erect and shoulders squared. Not a single one of these sessions went by without Dr. Caudwell halfheartedly wishing for some semblance of improvement in Draco’s behavior--and yet, the bitter blonde felt no remorse in expressing his disdain so obviously. He didn’t bother with a goodbye, merely offering the woman a curt nod before turning pointedly on his heel and shouldering his way out of her office.

The noisy racket of muggle London assaulted all of Draco’s senses from the moment he swung the door open and stepped foot onto asphalt and into the sticky summer air. It was enough to force him to grit his teeth and hunch his slender shoulders in disgust. He had learned early on to avoid touching shoulders with the muggles walking briskly down the pavement--lest he bump into them and force himself into more social interaction than necessary.

Long ago, Draco would have considered the very idea of perusing muggle spaces to be stupidly _preposterous_ ; his kind was not meant to fraternize with those _beneath_ him, after all.

When the Ministry had recommended him to a professional located out amongst the muggle, Draco had no choice but to swallow back the bile in his throat and accept the offer. _Anything but Azkaban,_ he had reminded himself. Anything but Azkaban was okay.

In spite of his reluctant acceptance, Draco found himself loathing his time in muggle London more and more; at least in Diagon Alley, the noise and raucous conversation were endearing. Muggles, on the hand, were a foreign species altogether it seemed. With their small, pocket-sized devices handy at all times and their blaring cars, muggles were an enigma Draco couldn’t figure out. Their mechanical devices--mobile phones, or something or another--made strange beeps and whirrs at all times, the sudden alarms enough to jar the blonde in his ill-fated journey. 

It was embarrassing just how many times that he, _the_ Draco Malfoy, had nearly jumped out of his skin due to an unsuspecting phone-call going off somewhere down the pavement.

With a muffled grumble of resignation, Draco ducked his way past a throng of school-aged muggle girls giggling their way along the sidewalk. He barely registered the sound of their shrill, high-pitched voices as the darkness of the narrow alleyway swallowed him whole. He had found the small nook on his way to his second visit only two weeks prior--and Draco found himself taking a liking to the shaded spot quickly enough.

Hidden away from the prying, dead eyes of muggles, the blonde felt as if he could catch his breath for just a moment.

His back pressed against the grimy brick wall behind him, leaving him with just a few slow seconds to inhale and exhale. Storm-colored eyes slipped shut for a moment--and for the first time since his appointment, Draco was able to just _be_. The roar of the city seemed to fade away into a dull rumble, the acrid and sour smells of tar, oil, and smog no longer tickling his nose.

Draco never had time for himself any longer--but here, even if it was just for a few lonely moments in a dark, putrid alleyway in muggle London, he could breathe without the watchful eyes of the Ministry or the wide-eyed gazes of passerbyers trained on him. It felt good. _Freeing_ , even.

The peace lasted for only a few precious moments before his entire body contorted with a muted pop and the bustling backdrop of London winked out in the blink of an eye.

\--

Therapy was far from the only stipulation to Draco’s lightened sentence following the war. As a means of paying reparations for the damage he had cost the majority of the wizarding world, he was sanctioned for community service.

Or as Draco liked to put it-- _glorified intern status._

The Wizengamot was not entirely sure of Draco’s threat level. He had been, afte rall, one of Voldemort’s most loyal subjects by association. It seemed almost _suicidal_ to send him out into the streets with no supervision before he had been properly rehabilitated and monitored. 

Which, naturally, left him with only two options. The first was to act as an underling caretaker at a dragon century in northern Scotland. The second, an errandboy for the Ministry’s numerous employees. Draco had figured that picking up orders of pumpkin juice was more favorable than scraping dragon dung day in and day out.

He now realized that this had been mistake number two.

The war must have destroyed all of his critical thinking capacities, Draco noted sourly; first therapy and now this. The first few days had been tolerable enough--save for the dagger-like glares shot in his direction every single time Draco turned his back to others--but progressively, his time in the Ministry became more and more intolerable.

Draco’s community service hours were tracked five days a week, every week, from eight-thirty in the morning ‘til the clock struck six o’clock sharp. The only exception to his grueling hours were his weekly meetings with Dr. Caudwell, affording Draco with a ‘late start’ in his day.

And thank Merlin for that small luxury.

The familiar clench of his insides sobered Draco as gray eyes blinked open to the sight of the Ministry bustling around him. The rush of apparition still lingered in his bones as the tall blonde shook out his hands and stood at his full height once more.

The clock had struck noon only fifteen minutes prior--and sure enough, it seemed as if the Ministry was in full swing around him. Employees with briefcases filled to the brim with papers and files shouldered past him with ease, squawking to their colleagues in excitement. Almost as if Draco wasn’t there at all. It had been just over a month since the trial, and while it may have bothered the young blonde to be so blatantly ignored before, he had begun to accept his fate with resignation.

His mother and father were lucky to be out of the public eye for the first time in years; the Malfoys were no longer being chased down in a witch hunt of poor taste. Which, in itself, was a blessing. Lucius had to serve a handful of months in Azkaban along with many of the others, but Narcissa--Narcissa had been what saved them all. Draco knew that he would be forced to share the same fate as his father were it not for the debt stupid Potter owed to his mother.

Draco remembered the hearing clear as day; the Wizengamot seated in their high seats and their shrewd gazes focused upon the shackled Malfoys while the green-eyed saviour gave his heartfelt appeal on behalf of the matriarch of the small pureblooded family. How it was Narcissa Malfoy that had guaranteed Harry’s victory. How it was because of her that the Chosen One was able to defeat the greatest evil magicalkind had ever seen.

He remembered how he had watched with tired eyes as the boy he had fought with for seven years saved him from the horrors of Azkaban.

All because of his mother.

While Lucius had no choice but to face prison, his sentence had been lightened handsomely due in part to Potter’s moving statement and in part to the Malfoy’s eagerness to collaborate with the Aurors in pursuing the case against all former Death Eaters. Others were not nearly as lucky as the Malfoys were; many were found mysteriously dead in what the Prophet could only dub as honor suicides--though Draco was sure they were anything but that. Others were sentenced to Azkaban for life. The remaining ex-followers of Voldemort’s cult had gone missing. Ridiculed and shamed, never to be seen again.

Being invisible in the grand scheme of things, Draco realized, was far better than other fates.

With a slight shake of his head, Draco dispelled the thoughts plaguing his mind. His footsteps were careful as he allowed himself to fall into autopilot, long legs carrying him up to the letter-room where his daily tasks were surely waiting for him. The room in question was a sprawling office that housed numerous cubbies for every Ministry employee available and an open window for owls to duck in and out with their deliveries.

It was, incidentally, Draco’s first stop at the top of the morning. Everything ran like clockwork here and Draco was no exception. It was easier to follow the schedule rather than deal with angry muttering and dirty glares by taking initiative on his own, after all. 

His daily schedule consisted of picking up the tasks waiting for him in his designated cubby, skimming through it, picking up pumpkin juice for the receptionist at the front of the auror’s office, then ticking off whatever tasks he managed to complete before it was time for him to be dismissed. 

His robotic footsteps carried him into the letter-room before he was able to snap himself out of his thought-muddled daze. It wasn’t until pale fingertips scraped against an empty cubby that Draco was able to fully focus back in on his work. His nails scratched unhappily against the rugged wood surface of the small crevice, forcing a grimace to his lips and a crease to form between pale brows. 

No, that couldn’t be right.

Draco pulled his hand away, lips curling down at the corners into the makings of a confused scowl before he bent his head to peer into the opening. It was dark-- _obviously,_ Draco thought bitterly to himself--but there was no mistaking the fact that his cubby was decidedly _empty_. There was no way it could be empty at this time of day; it seemed as if everyone and their mothers in the Ministry of Magic waited for Draco to arrive in order to dump an inordinate amount of busywork into his lap.

And yet, it seemed as if there was nothing at all waiting for him.

Strange. Draco took a step back, puzzled expression never once faltering as he silently stared at his cubby. The sound of owls’ fluttering, feathery wings faded into the background as the blonde scratched the back of his head in thought. Did he not have any assignments that day? Could he just… leave? Go home? If that was the case, perhaps he could owl Pansy and ask her out for a cup of tea. It had been far too long since he was able to see his dear fr--

“What are you doing, Malfoy?”

A startled hiss escaped Draco as he turned sharply on his heel, stormy gray eyes locking onto an all-too-familiar pair of brilliant, emerald green hues. 

Oh, hell. Not _him_.

“Surprisingly enough, _Potter_ , I happen to work here.” Draco managed to grind out through gritted teeth, shoulders squared and jaw clenched in a desperate attempt at masking the sudden fright the other had given him. “I’m sure it might be too much for your _pea-sized_ brain to comprehend, but you're not the one and only employee at the Ministry of Magic.”

“I would hardly say you count as an employee.”

_Fucking arse._

Draco fixed the dark-haired man with a withering look, teeth clenched tight enough for the muscle in his jaw to jump visibly. Harry _fucking_ Potter hadn’t changed one bloody bit since the war; he was still a smug, good for nothing jock with a hero complex--and while Draco knew a part of him was indebted to the Chosen One, he couldn’t bring himself to swallow his pride just yet. 

He didn’t bother dignifying Potter’s dig with a verbal response, merely scoffing and turning pointedly away. Draco instead busied himself with poking through his cubby experimentally once more, trying his best to ignore the rather irritated groan from behind him.

“Before you continue to act like a _git_ ,” Potter began slowly again, the measured annoyance lingering in his drawl enough to make Draco’s entire body go tense all over again, “I only asked because you were assigned to the Auror’s floor today. You were supposed to be there _thirty minutes ago._ ”

 _Shit_.

Draco’s entire expression went slack as his mind snapped back to a memory from the day before; Alabaster--Ryder Alabaster, the one member of the Wizengamot that had seemed genuinely sympathetic to Draco’s case and the one person in the entirety of the Ministry that seemed to warn the blonde of any ups and downs he may be forced to face--had mentioned to him that he had a special duty during the upcoming day. Admittedly, Draco’s thoughts had been faraway and disjointed, far too preoccupied with his therapy session to make real sense of what the man had meant. Draco had only mumbled and nodded in agreement without realizing the gravity of Alabaster’s words.

“Well,” Draco began as evenly as he could, slowly allowing himself to turn on his heel, “that’s quite unfortunate. I seem to be running a bit late.” His words were spoken carefully, clipped discomfort coloring his tone as he forced himself to look away from Potter in a last-ditch effort to save his already-battered pride.

Draco all but _heard_ the eye-roll in Potter’s voice when he spoke again. “Obviously. You might as well follow me, then, instead of staring at owls and empty letterboxes.” Potter managed out as calmly as he could--though the slight sneer wasn’t lost on the blonde. 

The former Slytherin forced a tight smile onto his lips, the thought of his mother the only thing keeping Draco from throwing a wandless hex in the dark-haired man’s direction. “Of course,” the blonde forced out through gritted teeth as he finally met Potter’s green gaze. “Lead the way, _Potter_.”

The other’s painful smile looked even more forced than Draco’s. “My pleasure, _Malfoy_.”

And with that, Draco realized, not even therapy could save him from an absolutely _horrendous_ day with none other than the Chosen One himself.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Draco had learned many years ago that there were fates  _ far worse  _ than death. The mysterious escape of death provided one with reprieve from the agony of life--a lesson Voldemort had instilled in his loyal subjects time and time again. 

The fanaticism behind the Dark Lord’s rise to power hadn’t been for nothing, after all; the serpent-like wizard had no qualms in showing how exquisitely effective methods like torture were in achieving an end goal. He showed how to make one crave death over life--and Draco was no fool. He learned his lesson quickly.

And  _ yet _ , Draco was sure that there was no greater torture than having to see Potter’s stupid, smug face every day.

The blonde could feel the way his lips twitched at the corners, a pained scowl threatening to break the fragile facade of calm settled across his angular features as his glare dug into the back of the man walking in front of him. 

If one didn’t know better, it would be easy to assume that Draco Malfoy was trailing after  _ the _ Harry Potter like a dejected cat on a harsh, stormy night. The very thought of it was enough to make him even more disgruntled, shoulders squaring as the heels of his shoes stabbed angrily at the ground with each furious step.

It was just Draco’s  _ luck _ to wind up as nothing more than a glorified  _ errand-boy _ for the Chosen One, himself, as punishment for his wayward actions. He had to bite his tongue time and time again to keep from spitting out a scathing comment every time the dark-haired  _ buffoon _ decided to open his mouth; the years following the war had done  _ little _ to change Potter’s intolerable attitude, Draco had realized. He was still  _ outrageously _ foolhardy as well as  _ grossly _ incompetent. 

It was like they had never graduated at all. It was  _ unbearable _ for Draco to see Potter hailed and celebrated everywhere he went on principle--and though a part of him knew that he owed the other a bit more respect after his stunt with the Wizengamot, he couldn’t help the bitter taste that flooded his mouth each time gray eyes met emerald hues.

Draco found himself so wrapped up in his own Potter-related thoughts that he hardly noticed the very real, very  _ physical _ Harry Potter in front of him come to an abrupt halt. Draco’s tall frame collided directly into the other’s back, pulling a startled hiss from Draco and a displeased grunt from Potter. Immediately, Draco jerked himself back to put two meters of space between their bodies as an angry flush of tomato-red spread across his pale cheeks. Potter’s strained growl of irritation barely registered as he crossed both arms across his chest and raised his slim shoulders in a show of bristled annoyance. 

“What, suddenly got cold feet,  _ Snotter _ ?” Draco spat out, his sneer laced with bitter distaste. “ _ Honestly _ , for the supposed Chosen One, you truly are quite bad at directions if you’re lost already--”

“ _ Shut up,  _ Malfoy.” The raw exasperation behind Potter’s words was enough to jerk Draco back into the present, gray eyes snapping back to where they were heading. 

And as soon as he did, the blonde felt the tips of his ears grow hot with embarrassment.

The pair found themselves standing before a sprawling cobblestone wall situated at the end of the corridor; Draco hadn’t registered the direction in which they were walking. In his short time at the Ministry, he often found himself ducking in and out of the less classified departments--may it be magical commerce or the beasts division. There were no special hoops to jump through or tightened security to bypass.

While many continued to view Draco as a threat within the walls of the Ministry, few ever physically stopped him from running the errands assigned to him. Doors were left open for bustling men and women while words were shouted across corridors with haste… which was exactly why Draco found himself dumbfounded into silence as his stormy eyes stared blankly at the wall before them.

Upon retrospect, Draco realized, it would make sense for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to be much more guarded than the other branches.  _ Obviously _ .

Draco’s own lack of forethought was enough to make his skin crawl, slender hands moving to bunch into the hem of his cloak with thinly-veiled irritation. It was already bad enough that he was being forced to be dragged behind Potter. Being quieted and shushed by the Chosen One like a spoiled  _ child _ only made the nauseating sense of embarrassment that much more prominent. 

His lips twisted into the makings of an annoyed scowl as motion registered at the edge of his vision--and while Draco had far too much pride to outright  _ watch _ Potter draw out his wand, he couldn’t help but peer at him from the very corner of his eyes.

The other man had a hand grasped firmly around his wand, tip raised to drag slowly along the center of a large stone chiseled neatly against the wall--and while Draco couldn’t see very well, the unmistakable sound of Potter’s low, hushed (and extremely  _ annoying _ ) drawl under his breath reached his ears. With each incantation Potter murmured, the tip of his wand began to glow with a muted green that grew stronger and stronger--and before long, the dark-haired man’s mumbling was overtaken by the sound of stone grinding against stone.

Storm-gray eyes snapped up automatically as the echo of splitting cobblestones drowned Draco’s senses, forcing him to straighten up. Shoulders remained tensed and squared in spite of the slight fascination gleaming in his eyes as he took in the wall, watching as the stones slowly dragged away to reveal a dark, narrow corridor.

Draco blinked once--then twice, as he stared blankly into the hall directly before him. It was almost tunnel-like with its slick, stone walls and stale air. The corridor faded into blackness in the distance--and from what Draco could tell, it lead into nothing. As lips pressed together into a thin line, the blonde bit back the urge to clear his throat. 

The dark walls of the corridor were enough to pull at memories Draco had long since attempted to bury away--images of the Slytherin common room and flashes of Malfoy Manor, all stained with blood along with the echoes of forgotten screams still ringing in the air, flooded his mind for a split second. Draco could feel his stomach turn, the burn of bile rising in his throat almost overwhelming until Potter’s baritone drawl cut through the haze and forced the bubbling reverie in his head to fall silent within an instant.

“Are you waiting for a bloody  _ invite _ , Malfoy? Go on.”

The tired exasperation in the dark-haired auror’s tone was enough to force Draco’s features to twist into an irritated scowl--yet again. Brows knitted together and his forehead creased, gray hues shooting a pointed glare in the other’s direction--as if his eyes were enough to spout off a hex. He had too much pride to dignify Potter with a verbal response; a mere snort was all Draco offered before sticking his nose up into the air and stiffly walking forward with the typical pomp and swagger that only a Malfoy could possess--even  _ if  _ said Malfoy had fallen to the bottom of the hypothetical food-chain. 

Arms crossed over his chest with each step Draco took--and though he was determined not to cast even half a glance back over his shoulder, Potter’s heavy footfalls from five steps behind him was enough to untangle the knot in the pit of his stomach ever so slightly. Not that Potter’s presence made him feel  _ safe _ by any stretch--not at all. It was simply that if Draco were to walk blindly into an abyss darker than a dragon’s heart, he may as well drag the arrogant twat along with him.

Two hippogriffs with one stone, after all. 

“ _ Lumos _ ,” Potter mumbled from somewhere before him before rays of silken light spilled out from behind Draco, illuminating the edges of the cobblestone corridor with tendrils of pale silver--and he exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding up until that moment. Draco swallowed thickly, trying to ignore the small pulse of relief coursing through his system; Malfoys were far from weak, but even the strongest of wizards met their matches. For Draco, the uncertain blackness of the dark held the strangest, most convoluted demons.

For years, his life had been plagued by the Dark Lord’s treacherous talons and in that time, Draco had learned to fear the dark. Even after the fall of Voldemort, the collateral damage remained; it made Draco almost sick to his stomach, knowing just how weak he was. 

He didn’t dare show it, though-- _ especially _ not as Potter trudged ahead of him, shouldering past Draco’s slender frame with little more than annoyed grunt. 

Draco’s face contorted into an irritated frown as the other all but shoved him aside. Instinctively, a balled-up hand clutched at his own wand before a quickly-muttered  _ Lumos _ escaped his lips to shed light upon his own path. 

No way in hell would he allow  _ Snotter _ to light up the way. He could do that himself,  _ thankyouverymuch. _

The remainder of the walk was cold and silent, save for the sound of synchronized footsteps against slick stone floors. Draco’s lips twisted into an angry grimace as he raised his wand enough to illuminate the outline of Potter’s brutish silhouette. Draco had a nasty, sinking feeling about the direction of this… interaction. The aurors were a secretive branch of the Ministry—for good reason, of course.

Growing up, the aurors within the Ministry were tasked with scouting out wizards like Draco’s own father; suspected Death Eaters were carefully tailed and documented, watched with the eyes of a hippogriff in the years prior to the uprising. Draco had only heard whisperings and snippets about how the blasted aurors were the Ministry’s personal, brain-washed puppets… how they were on the wrong side of history. 

To be in such close quarters with the Head Auror  _ himself _ was enough to make Draco’s stomach turn. Doubly so that it was the very boy he had been conditioned to hate for so long. 

Potter’s footsteps came to a halt, and this time, Draco was alert enough to catch himself before colliding into the other a second time. He raised his wand, allowing the silken light spilling from the tip to illuminate the wall they found themselves in front of. The dark cobblestone was broken only by a heavy wooden door with what could only be called an intricate iron padlock.

“ _ Nox _ ,” Potter mumbled under his breath, dimming the hallway until only the light from Draco’s wand illuminated the area. He pressed his lips together into a thin line, eyes narrowed into slits as he dubiously watched the other man move to trace something into the center of the door with the tip of his wand—and just as Harry pulled back, the sudden sound of metal scraping against metal echoed through the dank corridor.

Draco hissed, taking an immediate step back as the tendrils of darkened iron inched apart, a reproachful glare shot in Potter’s direction. He watched reluctantly as the other man stood silently, waiting for the heavy doors to swing open before bright green eyes snapped over to meet Draco’s. He stiffened, grip on his wand tightening. “What?” Draco snapped.

“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you this,” Potter began, his voice a low, tense drawl, “but whatever we discuss here  _ stays _ here.  _ Period _ .” 

Draco’s grimace only got darker. “Unlike  _ you _ , Snotter, I have a functioning brain. You don’t have to treat me like a child.” 

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Draco’s jaw fell slack, anger sizzling deep within his chest as a growl seethed out through clenched teeth. Before he could snap an ill-tempered hex in Potter’s direction, the auror turned away and swept past the wide wooden doors. Draco had half a mind to stay frozen where he was, hands trembling with thinly-veiled fury, when a distant  _ “hurry up, Malfoy” _ forced him to trudge forward after a muttered  _ Nox _ under his breath.

As Draco made his way forward, the anger burning within him slowly subsided; instead, his attention turned to the sprawling office Potter had lead him into. There were numerous enchanted typewriters, sorted stacks of filers and papers whizzing through the air, and door after door labeled by name. 

He had too much pride to jog, instead keeping a brisk walking pace even though Potter was a solid three meters ahead of him. Draco forced his gaze away from the sight before him, instead watching as the  _ Chosen One _ opened the last door to the left. As he swung it open, Draco was able to register the gleaming lettering emblazoned upon the rich, dark wood of the door itself. 

_ HARRY J. POTTER, HEAD AUROR.  _

Figures. Draco’s lips curled into a scowl. The blasted fool got his own office. 

Draco came to an abrupt halt, lingering in the doorway when he did. He twisted his head enough to peer into the office--and for a moment, Draco couldn’t help but feel… surprised.

It was far from neat, but there was a distinct sense of order behind the numerous stacks of forms and papers piled high on the wide desk tucked towards the back of the small space. An enchanted coffee mug rested at the corner of the structure, a gilded spoon swirling lazily at its own accord. The air tasted of lukewarm coffee and pumpkin, which both intrigued and puzzled the Malfoy heir at the same time.

“Stop gawking. You’re not here on a tour, you know.”

The fascination in Draco’s eyes immediately gave way to fresh irritation as teeth clenched tightly. “Perhaps I’d stop gawking if you were at least  _ halfway competent enough _ to inform me on why the fuck I’m here,” he spat out vehemently, hissed words laced with cutting acid as he raised his gaze to shoot Potter a glare.

The dark-haired auror was in the process of removing his cloak, scarred hands clasped at the hem of the clothing before he froze. Emerald green hues narrowed into a heated glare, enough force behind it to match Draco’s own, not that he particularly cared. He already spent seven years of his life glaring at Potter, nothing really scared him anymore.

“You’re here because you’ve been assigned to help me with a case.” 

Silence.

“A case.” Draco slowly repeated back to him. “The Ministry wants  _ me _ to help you… with a  _ case _ .”

“My reaction exactly. I would’ve never picked you if I could help it.” Harry drawled out flatly, turning his attention away in favor of folding up his cloak neatly.

“As if  _ I  _ would ever want to help  _ you _ , either!” Draco snapped heatedly, unable to help the bubbling anger from cutting through his tone. His entire body was tense and Draco quickly sucked in a breath to steady himself; sudden bursts of emotion from him were unlikely, but for Merlin’s sake, did Potter grate on his nerves.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Malfoy, can you lower your voice?” Harry retorted in exasperation, fixing him with another glare. “You can at least pretend to act like an adult. Besides, I’ve been nothing but civil. And I have every right to throw a tantrum after everything you’ve done, wouldn’t you say?”

Potter’s words cut a little deeper than Draco would have liked to admit. His body tensed automatically in an attempt to mask the way he flinched ever so slightly. Teeth pressed together tight enough for the muscle in his jaw to jump and whatever witty quip was balanced on the tip of Draco’s tongue died out instantly. “ _ Git _ ,” was all he managed to hiss out through his clenched jaw.

“ _ Poetic _ ,” Potter scoffed with an eye-roll. “Never heard you call me that before. Now sit, we have to discuss your responsibilities.”

Draco swallowed the lump slowly beginning to form in his throat, dread and regret knotting into the pit of his stomach as he all but dragged himself forward, door swinging closed behind him. “Right,” he managed out through gritted teeth as he sank down into the chair opposite of Potter’s desk. “ _ Responsibilities _ .”

He stared down at his hands, refusing to give Potter the satisfaction to see the way his mouth was twitching and the distress in his eyes. He had already been stripped of everything. His status, his money, his power, and now his dignity.  _ Potter’s bitch _ is what he was, and this only proved it.

Azkaban was starting to sound better and better, Draco realized. Better than  _ this _ , at the very least.

\----

A resigned groan escaped Harry’s lips as a hand carded through his messy curls. “That fucking  _ git _ ,” he gritted out through clenched teeth.

“Harry,  _ language _ .”

The exasperation behind his friend’s familiar voice was enough to pull troubled green eyes up from the butterbeer he had been nursing for the better part of an hour. Harry couldn’t help the disgruntled frown on his lips as he registered Hermione’s half-concerned, half-disapproving expression staring at him from across the table. “What?” Harry mumbled in spite of Hermione’s growing exasperation, grumbling as he took a hasty gulp of his butterbeer. “It’s true. He is a git. Was back then, still is now.”

“Y’know he’s right, ‘mione.” 

Ron’s off-handed agreement earned him a sharp swat to the shoulder--which was followed by a muffled  _ oomph _ and  _ ‘oi!’  _ of protest--but it was enough to pull the faintest smile to Harry’s tired face. 

“What? Draco’s a git, Harry’s right!” Ron moaned dejectedly.

“Git or  _ not _ , the two of you know better than to bad-mouth our co-workers in a place so  _ public _ .”

Hermione’s perfectly logical comment was enough to make both young men groan in defeat.

“Ah, that’s right, Junior Assistant to the Minister.” Harry drawled out with a hint of good-natured sarcasm. 

“That’s  _ Miss _ Junior Assistant to you, Oh-So-Chosen-One.”

Ron leaned across the table just slightly, a hand lifting in a show of mock secrecy. “She’s just trying to save face, y’see. Bad for her campaign ‘n whatnot.” the redhead continued in a stage whisper, dramatic wink following suit.

And for the first time that day, Harry found it within himself to let out a warm, hearty laugh. The sound only grew louder as Hermione elbowed Ron directly in the side, pulling yet another surprised yelp from the burly redhead. 

“Oi! You’re bein’ unfair, ‘mione! Y’know I’m ticklish.” 

“That would be the point,  _ Ronald _ . Now honestly. Will the two of you behave like the  _ adults _ you are?” Hermione continued--though Harry was convinced he saw a ghost of a playful smile on her lips from out of the corner of his eyes. 

The auror couldn’t help but let out a quiet sigh, slumping back in the booth as the tension coiled tight in his muscles slowly began to dissolve. He watched with quiet amusement as his two best friends squabbled in a way that could only be labeled as a lovers’ quarrel, bickering and nudging each other with smiles they couldn’t be bothered to hide; in the decade or so that he had known both Hermione and Ron, Harry had learned what it meant to have a family--and even now, he found himself turning to them both when the pressures of being the Chosen One felt too heavy upon his shoulders. 

“--Besides, what did Malfoy even do today?”

Harry glanced up at the sound of Hermione’s voice, expression faltering once again as the thought of the blonde-haired git infiltrated his thoughts yet again. He could feel both pairs of eyes on him, concern radiating off of Hermione while Ron exuded curiosity. “Well…” Harry began almost awkwardly, unsure of where to begin. His gaze wandered away as his thoughts flitted back to the uncomfortable, stiff, and overall unpleasant day he had been forced to share with the heir to the Malfoy estate. 

“Do you remember that case I’ve been telling you about? The one about the missing orphans we connected with a band of snatchers? The Ministry figured I needed a… helping hand of sorts around the office to keep things running smoothly.”

“And they thought Malfoy was the one to get the job done? Bloody hell.”

“Yeah, you’re telling me.”

Harry couldn’t help but tug restlessly at messy dark locks, trying to drown the scowl on his lips with three large gulps of butterbeer. Hermione’s tired, chiding sigh was enough to make Harry groan all over again. He glanced up at her, registering her tight-lipped frown before letting out a muffled noise of exasperation himself. 

“’Mione, you’re doing that thing again,” Harry remarked.

Hazel eyes stretched wide, brows furrowed as she shot Harry a reproachful look. “I am not,” she protested before Ron let out a low chortle in response. 

“Y’are,” he commented under his breath, earning yet another pointed glare from the other. “That whole  _ scrunched-nose, disapproving, wrinkly-forehead _ thing.” Harry felt himself smirk before he could stop himself, though he had the sense to quickly hide the curl to his lips behind the rim of his glass as Hermione let out an annoyed groan. 

“Well pardon me for being a little concerned. I cannot stand Malf— _ Draco _ any more than you two do, but don’t you find it… a little coincidental that he’s been assigned to an Auror case? One that Harry’s in charge of no less?”

The grin on Harry’s lips fell at her words, brows knitting together before his glass met the surface of the table with a muffled thud. 

“Whadda y’mean?” Ron’s question beating Harry to the punch as the redhead gave Hermione a strange look. “I mean, yeah it’s weird, but I dunno what y’mean by  _ coincidental… _ ”

“Honestly, even after the war, the both of you are still so thick.” Hermione folded her arms across her chest. “Lucius Malfoy’s hearing for his release from Azkaban is scheduled to happen in a month. Don’t you find it strange that with something so important coming up… that Draco’s assigned to you? It’s almost like they’re trying to keep tabs on him, wouldn’t you say?”

Sure enough, Hermione’s simple deduction was enough to leave both Harry and Ron in dumbfounded silence. 

“Well,” Harry drawled out slowly, swirling the remaining liquid in his glass, “it does sound a little strange when you put it like that, doesn’t it?”

“ _ Blimey _ , ‘Mione. You’re bloody brilliant, y’know that?” A chuckle slipped past Ron’s lips before he leaned in to plant a wet kiss to Hermione’s cheek, pulling a strained noise from the woman. “Oh, Ronald! Stop that!” she groaned, elbowing Ron in the center of his chest in an attempt to push him away.

Ron’s laughter was infectious, turning Harry’s somewhat disgruntled eye-roll into a half-amused smile. “So d’ya think they’re tryin’ to investigate whether Malfoy junior’s gonna be thrown into Azkaban, too? Or if they’re gonna put him on the stand? Bloody hell, Harry! You’re undercover while on undercover!”

His friend’s animated rambling faded off into a background hum as Harry slowly absorbed the meaning behind Hermione’s insinuation. The dark-haired auror always knew his sway within the Ministry was a sort of trump card that others leaned on—and at one point in the past, it was his own word that prevented the youngest Malfoy from joining Lucius within Azkaban’s hollow walls. 

The thought brought him back to the image of Narcissa’s sad gray eyes, Draco seated in the sole chair within the ring, surrounded by the scrutinizing eyes of the Wizengamot boring holes into him. He remembered the ugly knot settled in the pit of his own stomach as Narcissa’s pleading gaze found him in the crowd—and Harry knew that standing by doing nothing was not only wrong, but cruel.

He owed Narcissa. Draco had done so much wrong in his life, but it was Narcissa that had saved him once. It was the least he could do.

“—we’re gonna go, mate.”

Ron’s voice dragged Harry back to reality, gaze snapping up to the sight of both of his friends carefully getting to their feet. “Oh, right.” He forced a smile to his lips. 

“Oh, Harry.” Hermione didn’t let Harry get to his feet, instead wrapping her arms around him in a tight hug and pulling him close. “I wish we could do this more often.” Her words were warm and full of affection as she pulled back to offer him a kind smile, dark brown eyes brimming with love. Harry felt his smile before he even realized it, squeezing the woman in his arms before pulling away to pull Ron in for a hug, as well.

“It’s always great seeing the two of you.” He offered seriously.

Ron’s hand clapped against the auror’s shoulder, lopsided grin in place. “Same to you, mate. If George didn’t ask me to mind the shop t’night, I’d say a few pints are in order, eh?”

Harry laughed in response. “Definitely.”

Hermione rolled her eyes good-naturedly before her small hand slipped into Ron’s larger one, fingers lacing together as the pair stood up. “We’ll see you next time, Harry. Dinner next weekend?” 

Ron nodded. “Mum’s been absolutely raving about having you come by for a proper meal. Says you looked a little too thin on the Prophet’s front page last week.”

A sheepish smile touched Harry’s lips. “I’ll be sure to stop by. Give Molly my love.” He offered warmly, a last round of hugs passed around before both Ron and Hermione turned to exit.

With a tired sigh, Harry stared down into his glass and slumped down into his seat once his friends departed. Perhaps the situation with Malfoy was much more complicated than he had anticipated, Harry realized. The thought made him grimace, brows furrowing as he tilted his head back and polished off whatever was left of his butterbeer in one smooth gulp. 

_ And perhaps it was his responsibility to get to the bottom of it.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After some minor edits, here's chapter 2! Chapter 3 is ready, as well, and only needs a few more tweaks before it's ready to go up. I'm super excited to pick this fic back up and I hope! Y'all enjoy it too!


	3. Chapter 3

_ It burned. _

_ Searing tendrils of white-hot fire snaked through his veins, burning him from the inside out until every organ within him screamed in agony; his body felt like an emaciated carcass, bending in on itself until the brittle bones holding him upright began to disintegrate into ash in the swirling pool of molten lava splitting him open. Cracked lips parted in a vain attempt at screaming--but not a sound escaped him. A pale, shaking hand clutched at his middle as a fresh wave of pain racked through him--and as he looked down, the agony only gave way to nauseating horror. _ __

_ Pale, slender fingers were stained black with blood, thick ichor dripping down the length of his arm as pain radiated through him in dull pulses. No, the boy thought to himself. It couldn’t be. He never meant to kill. He never meant to harm _

_ He was just a boy. _

_ Shaking hands turned over to expose thick bands of swirling black ink tattooed against previously untouched, virginal skin. A serpent snaked its way around his arm under the coat of blood, twisting and turning until it wrapped itself around the half-skull glaring up at him with dead, empty sockets for eyes.  _

_ Just the sight of it was enough to make his stomach twist; an unholy reminder of a war he tried his best to forget, permanently etched into his skin, imbued into his essence. A broken sob was the only sound he managed to choke out, angry tears blurring his vision. Knees buckled once before sinking to the grimy stone floors--and when empty gray eyes anxiously looked up, all he could see was the penetrating gaze of a serpent. _

_ Sickening yellow eyes, a crimson ring circling around the slit irises of the beast, poured into him--and before he could cry or shout or yell a hex, HIS voice cut through the dull roar of blood in his ears. The jagged edge of his familiar hiss made the boy’s hair stand on the back of his neck, chest lurching painfully as the familiar burn against his mark reginited. _

_ “Oh, Draco, my boy…” _

_ No. _

_ “Such a good follower, you are. We say kill, and kill you do.” _

_ No! _

_ “You have served me well, and for that, you will be remembered. Forever. Forever my slave, forever my loyal follower.” _

_ He was immobilized, petrified by the eyes of the Dark Lord himself, holding him hostage when he was nothing more than a boy. _

_ A tendril of ice snaked around his throat and as chapped lips parted with a silent scream, Draco felt himself choke on the memories of a time he ached to forget. Blood, broken wings, a dead bird perched within the center of his palm, the guilt of one thousand deaths riding on strained shoulders. “I--” his throat felt raw, burning with the fire ripping him apart at the seams. “I don’t want this.” Each word sent pain shooting through him, like a sword spearing through his ribcage over and over and over again--until it hurt too much to breathe. _

_ Each inhale filled his lungs with needles and before he could help it, Draco felt himself double over. Palms dug into the rough stone floors hard enough to draw fresh blood, mingling with the thick rivulets of burgundy clinging to his skin still.  _

_ I don’t want this.  _

_ I don’t want to kill. _

_ I don’t want to be one of you. _

_ Each thought raged through his skull, choking him until the edges of his blurred vision began to darken. The sound of the Dark Lord’s sinister laugh suddenly resounded through the dark, empty room, pounding through his brain like a cacophony of chaos. Draco choked out a pained sob as angry tears spilled down his cheeks. He blinked once, then twice, staring directly at his bloodied hands. _

_ Laying under his palm was a small weight of delicate white feathers. He choked, jerking his hand away to discover the still body of a bird, pristine feathers stained scarlet from the blood on his hands--and Draco felt his heart lurch painfully within his ribcage.  _

_ He tried to scream--but as he opened his mouth, blinding green light overtook him. _

_ \---- _

He woke with a start, jolting upright with a choked-out gasp. One hand flew up to clutch desperately at his chest--as if to double-check that his heart still worked, that his chest was still rising and falling with each ragged breath. Draco’s storm-colored hues were stretched wide with disoriented horror as he came to from the nightmare, pale skin slick with cold sweat in spite of the cool wind blowing through the open window. His sheets were pooled on the ground in a rumpled, unceremonious heap.

Draco briefly wondered when he had kicked them to the ground before he drew in a slow, shuddering breath; the nauseating shock of being pulled awake slowly subsided, ebbing away until the racing of his heart began to slowly but surely stabilize. 

“ _ Merlin _ ,” the blonde breathed out slowly, heavy lids falling shut. Nails dug into pale skin ever so slightly with enough pressure to leave faint red crescents in their wake--not that Draco cared. 

The nightmares were not foreign visitors; for many nights, Draco’s sleep had been plagued by images of death and carnage, familiar serpent’s eyes watching him as he suffocated slowly and painfully until the guilt of his past crushed him completely. It was always the same. He was always alone, always suffering--and while the blonde-haired young man logically understood why his vivid nightmares chased him in the dark ( _ trauma _ , Dr. Caudwell called it; something about how the repressed pain and guilt from all those years ago were slowly bubbling to the surface) he couldn’t help but feel…  _ weak _ .

_ Spineless _ . Like a child.

Draco felt his stomach lurch sickeningly, pulling an uneasy groan past his lips as eyes squeezed shut yet again. Another slow, shaky breath was all he needed before the blonde flopped back against his sweat-drenched sheets, gray eyes fluttering open ever so slightly to stare up at the ceiling of his bedroom almost blankly. As if counting the specks of dust floating in the air would chase away the visions, the nightmares, the sickness.

_ It never really worked, did it? _

He almost barked out a cold laugh to himself. Instead, Draco let out a resigned groan and pointedly turned onto his side, a hand reaching haphazardly to tug his duvet back up onto the bed and over himself. He knew that he was supposed to record the nightmare in the small diary tucked away in the drawer of his bedside table--but perhaps… perhaps ignoring it for now would make it less real.

Perhaps the dawn would chase away the memories he tried so hard to forget. 

\---

“You said you had another nightmare?”

Dr. Caudwell’s clinical tone barely registered as hollow gray eyes stared blankly ahead. It seemed as if even blinking was enough to send sparks of bright, vivid green against the backs of his eyelids, leaving Draco in a hollow, empty trance. His expression felt vacant, void of its usual snark and energy as he simply allowed the woman’s words to blend into a haphazard mishmash of background noise. He slowly nodded his head in response, hoping that his confirmation would be enough to steer the conversation away from the painful flashbacks of a time best left forgotten.

“Can you tell me a bit about it?”

“What else is there to tell? It’s the same as always.” Draco’s words lacked his trademark sarcasm, voice little more than a flat, monotonous drawl as he forced stormy eyes up to meet Dr. Caudwell’s. Slender shoulders lifted ever so slightly in an apathetic shrug as Draco averted his gaze. “Darkness, blood, the stupid dead fucking  _ bird _ .” Each word was laced with a certain level of annoyance, as if the blonde was growing further and further irritated with himself for his glaring weaknesses. 

He couldn’t help but clench his teeth together to suppress the scowl threatening to overtake his carefully-crafted mask. He drew in a slow, shaky breath instead before closing his eyes. “And  _ him _ .” He forced out through gritted teeth, careful to keep his tone as measured and calm as possible.

Draco knew that Dr. Caudwell didn’t need him to explain in any more detail who  _ he _ was. Even squibs were intimately familiar with the mechanics of the war and destruction Voldemort had left in his path to chaos. Draco had been caught in the thick of it due to his status as a Malfoy--but even non-magicals like Dr. Caudwell knew of  _ his _ wrath. The Dark Lord was a dangerous figure to all with knowledge of the magical world, after all. 

He heard a slow sigh escape her lips as he forced himself to finally look back at her, jaw set tight and eyes steeled in preparation for her following words.

“Draco…” she began, her careful voice dropping the clinical edge to it, “I understand that this is… difficult to open up to me about. So forgive me in advance.”

He merely grunted in response, stirring in his seat to instead fold his arms square over his chest. “ _ But _ …?” Draco drawled out slowly, brows quirking ever so slightly--almost to challenge her in spite of the edge of apprehension creeping into his careful tone. 

“But you need to be honest with me.” Her bluntness almost surprised him. Seeing Dr. Caudwell’s concerned expression was enough to make his shoulders sag in defeat. “Was this one different from the last one?” she continued on.

_ The last one. _

Draco nearly flinched at the reminder of the last nightmare he had experienced; he had been fraught with terror, nearly cancelling his appointment that morning out of sheer panic and paranoia. The prior nightmare hadn’t included  _ just _ the Dark Lord, but Auntie Bella, as well; her wild black curls and loud, sadistic cackle made Draco feel as if his eardrums were ready to split in half. He couldn’t help but swallow the dry lump quickly beginning to form in his throat as his mind found itself ensnared in his memories of Malfoy Manor.

Lucius & Narcissa Malfoy were far from the ideal parents, but they were all Draco had; his father was a stern man, cold and distant--almost emotionless to many. He was bound by blood to a lineage addled with darkness and trickery. Deceit was ingrained deep into his blood--and Draco, by proxy; he was the heir to the convoluted Malfoy legacy, after all. The next in line to uphold the traditions his father passed onto him. Lucius was present only in snapshots of Draco’s upbringing; a steady figure in photographs, perhaps, but absent in many other moments.

Narcissa spent many years comforting Draco over his father’s effort--or lack, thereof--to be involved in his life. “ _ Daddy is busy with work, my dear, _ ” she would whisper softly, delicate hand brushing through platinum locks with the gentle touch that only a mother could possess. “ _ But you are so loved... so, so loved by us both, my dearest Draco. You are our boy, our beautiful boy. Mummy and Daddy are so proud of you. _ ”

His lack of physical presence was often supplanted with gifts, toys, money, silken clothing, expensive trinkets--and while money could never buy love, Draco never felt…  _ abandoned _ . His mother and father, no matter how twisted, were family.

But Auntie Bella.

Auntie Bella was a  _ sadist _ .

The Black sisters were a strange trio; his aunt Andromeda, long since estranged, had no presence while aunt Bellatrix demanded the world and more from those around her. A staunch purist with archaic beliefs, she quickly became the Dark Lord’s most loyal servant. It was her lack of empathy, her deranged desire to do absolutely whatever it took to gain the Dark Lord’s trust, that earned her the spot of one of the most dangerous witches in the Wizarding world. 

No one was safe from her wrath; not even  _ Draco _ . 

Anyone that stood in her way was destined for pain, torture, ugliness; Draco learned quickly to never question Auntie Bella, lest he wanted to bear the scars of her irritation on his perfectly pale skin. Not that Bellatrix Lestrange would ever dare to permanently mar Draco’s beauty; Narcissa would never allow that, surely, but that didn’t stop the young blonde-haired boy from quaking with fear whenever beady black eyes burned into him.

He had seen Auntie Bella torture anyone who crossed her; she was the reason the Longbottom boy lacked parents while growing up. She was the reason  _ so many souls _ suffered. 

She never outright hurt him; not the way she did to so many others. Bellatrix would croon to Draco about how a beautiful boy like him should make his parents  _ proud _ , how he should follow in her own footsteps in being a docile servant to the Dark Lord upon his return. Her threats were never so blunt; rather, they were woven carefully into sweet, honeyed words. Like hidden pearls of advice that held a more sinister and threatening implication behind them… like how boys who didn’t listen to orders were often left for dead by those more powerful than he. 

Auntie Bella made it a point to make sure Draco was present and at attention when it was time for her to  _ tactfully _ extract information from their prisoners. She was truly a master of the  _ cruciatus _ curse, Draco learned, and no matter how much his stomach twisted and turned, he forced himself to sit still and watch with a vacant expression as body after body screamed and twisted in agony.

His last nightmare starred the dark-haired woman with her head thrown back in an ugly, grating laugh and her wand drawn, pointed directly at him before crushing pain seized each and every limb in his body. When waking up from those visions, Draco often found himself absolutely paralyzed in his bed, limbs tensed and breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. 

Pressing his lips together into a thin line, Draco finally forced a curt nod. “She wasn’t there this time,” he commented slowly, careful to keep his tone clipped and deliberate. “Just him.” 

Dr. Caudwell gave a soft hum of acknowledgement, head bent down now as she carefully made notes in her small, meticulous handwriting. “When you woke up, how did you feel?”

“Like my heart stopped beating.” This time, Draco’s response was automatic. It was a gut reaction, an honest confession he knew there was no point in being ashamed of. “Like I had… died. But I didn’t.”

She looked up at him this time and when their gazes met, Draco was sure she saw something similar to sadness reflected in her eyes. “Death is a scary subject,” the woman offered thoughtfully. If he weren’t so exhausted and drained, Draco was sure he would have rolled his eyes. “It feels like a lot of what you’re experiencing today has to do with your feelings surrounding death and dying.”

He barely suppressed a tired-sounding groan. “Tell me something I don’t know,” the blonde drawled out with a touch of his usual annoyance.

“Tell you what,” Dr. Caudwell started again. “How about we work on this a little differently? Try doing something today that really helps you… center yourself and focus on life in the present. Maybe reach out to an old friend? Ask them for a cup of tea?”

“That sounds outrageously frivolous,” Draco deadpanned in response, nose scrunching ever so slightly.

“Maybe it is.” She let out a faint laugh. “But it’s something, right?”

He couldn’t argue that. Instead, Draco merely scoffed and rolled his eyes to show his displeasure.

“I want you to at least try. And then next week, you and I can talk about it. How does that sound?”

“It sounds absolutely droll.  _ But _ ,” the blonde started with a shake of his head, “I’ll see what I can do.”

He caught Dr. Caudwell’s smile out of the corner of his eye as he got to his feet, gathering up his jacket into his arms. With the fleeting memories of his nightmare slowly ebbing away, Draco tried his best to keep himself as level as possible. With one last curt nod, the blonde moved towards the door.

“See you next week, Draco.” Dr. Caudwell’s voice faded just as the door closed behind him.

—

To say that Draco Malfoy had  _ friends _ was only a slight exaggeration.

Malfoys were taught from a young age that  _ emotional vulnerability _ was synonymous with  _ weakness _ —and by proxy, that friendship and mental intimacy would do nothing but open up one’s underbelly to attack. 

He had fewer friends and more followers. Crabbe and Goyle had been little more than eager cronies brainwashed into doing his bidding—until they tried to rebel against him during the last leg of the war. Not that it mattered, Crabbe ended up lighting up like a candle on a birthday cake at the end of it. Or was it Goyle? Draco didn’t quite remember.

There was, however, a select few number of individuals that had earned a special place in Draco’s (carefully guarded, somewhat small) heart. Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini were stellar students in Slytherin that not only matched Draco in wit and intellect, but also in pomp and confidence. They were as equal to him as he could find—and while Draco would much rather choke on a troll’s rotten toenail than admit it, they were his two best friends.

Dr. Caudwell’s request stuck with him for the remainder of the day. Still somewhat shaken, the blonde opted to send off a hasty note to the Ministry to notify them of a much-needed sick day. Draco figured that the best way to spend his day off would be to go home, brew himself a cup of tea, and read a book to gather his thoughts in peace.

But Dr. Caudwell’s voice seemed to crop up every time the blonde tried to relax. 

Following the war, many pureblooded royals were displaced from their fortunes. Many were shamed into hiding while others tried their best to hold onto their dignity and reintegrate into proper society. The Malfoys following the trial were trying their best to hold their heads high—but Draco found himself moving out into a flat on his own, anyway. It was a small abode, nothing at all compared to the sprawling manor in which he grew up, but it was something hidden away from the salivating public of the wizarding world. 

The Zabinis were a proud family, dripping in wealth and charm for generations—and even after the war, the matriarch of the family refused to bow her head in shame unlike many of her peers. Blaise and his family carried on as usual. They moved with grace and dignity in spite of the numerous trials and whispers thrown in their direction. Blaise secured himself an internship at St. Mungo’s and held his head high.

The Parkinsons, on the other hand, had all but faded into the shadows. Pansy was a smart and sharp-witted witch with a wide array of opportunities ahead of her—but the end of the war brought on a dark period for the Parkinson family. Her mother and father along with her older brother fled Europe to get away from prying eyes and harsh words.

But Pansy refused to run. Draco had initially offered the dark-haired woman a place to stay in his own flat—but she had too much pride to let herself rely on others. Instead, Pansy rented herself a flat in muggle London where she was now attending muggle university—a shock to both Draco and Blaise—to find a calling outside of the world that had all but left her and her family for dead. 

The process was a unique one that was changing the once closed-minded witch into a more culturally sensitive one. It often left Draco impressed and in awe; the muggles still gave Draco strange feelings, but nowhere near the same way he felt in the past.

Pansy was often busy with her coursework while Blaise worked irregular shifts to cover the requirements for his internship and while the opportunities for both were amazing, that often left Draco with no friends to spend time with. 

To get both of them in the same place was a feat in itself—but Dr. Caudwell seemed genuinely interested in hearing about his time with his friends. No matter, Draco thought. He’d send off an owl to both. The odds were that neither would be able to swing something on such short notice, but at least Draco could say he tried.

He penned off two simple letters asking each of his friends for tea that evening and thought nothing more of it. Just as Draco fetched himself a novel from the bookshelf tucked towards the back of his flat, the tell-tale sound of a beak pecking rather urgently against the panes of his window caused him to jump.

“ _ Merlin’s beard, _ ” the blonde seethed out through clenched teeth. Automatically, Draco slapped the book shut and set it aside. Crossing the room in long strides, he paused before the window and squinted against the glare—only  _ somewhat _ surprised to catch sight of his owl with two letter attached to its leg already.

He knew both Pansy and Blaise were speedy when it came to responding but this was at a level that even Draco was shocked. With a resigned groan, he reached to unlatch the window and flip it open. The feathered creature let out a squeaky hoot before hopping into the warmth of his flat, wings ruffled and saucer-like eyes twisting up to look at Draco expectantly.

A part of him  _ should’ve _ known that there was always a chance that his two dear friends would have actually accepted his offer for tea—but for some reason, the entire concept had seemed too unlikely that when he  _ did _ open the letters to see not one but two enthusiastic agreements to see him, Draco couldn’t help but gawk. 

“Oh for Merlin’s sake,” the blonde ground out through his teeth, oddly frustrated that he would, indeed, have to socialize with his two closest friends in the world.

He hated when Dr. Caudwell was right.

With a resigned groan, Draco tossed the letters aside and shuffled to his room to change into decent clothing. One glance into the mirror to smooth out striking platinum locks was the last thing he did before his body contorted and winked out of the room with a  _ pop _ .

—

Pale cheeks were tinged pink by the blustery winds sweeping through the langes of Hogsmeade. Draco hugged his coat closer to his lean frame, squinting against the flurry of neverending snow. Even during the weekdays, the small town seemed to be bustling with life; witches and wizards were packed along the narrow, snow-coated paths.

The blonde kept his head bowed in an attempt at catching anyone’s eye; after skipping out on work, the last thing he needed was for someone to report back to the Ministry with his whereabouts. Instead, he focused on seeking out Madam Puddifoot’s amongst the numerous storefronts lining the picturesque area. 

A small bell chimed as Draco pushed the door open, frigid air giving way to the familiar warmth as a whirlwind of floral and earthy scents wrapped around him. He puffed out a soft breath as his teeth stopped chattering. Madam Puddifoot’s had always been one of Draco’s favorite spots in Hogsmeade. While many of his classmates favored the raucous, electrifying air of the Three Broomsticks, Draco and his two friends often found themselves tucked away in a quiet corner in the tea-shop, piercing gazes leering off anyone who dared to look at them for a second too long.

Gray eyes roved over the small space—and sure enough, he caught sight of two familiar figures settled neatly in the booth that the trio had called their own for seven years.

Blaise, with his St. Mungo’s issued cloak, lounged on one side of the booth. A teacup rested on the table before him, an enchanted silver spoon swirling the earl grey within the small ceramic cup with ease while an occasional sugar cube floated from the saucer at the center of the table and plopped into the tea at its own leisure. He looked relaxed, elegantly sharp features caught in what seemed to be a permanent state of neutral calmness. Everything about Blaise Zabini seemed to radiate “cool and collected,” from his relaxed posture to the slight lift of his brows as he listened intently. 

Seated opposite of Blaise was none other than the sharp-tongued witch that had asserted herself as Draco’s equal. Pansy’s jet-black locks were chopped off into a blunt bob no longer than just a centimeter past her chin and her lips were painted a striking shade of ruby red. Her silken tresses bounced animatedly as she spoke—and while Blaise donned the traditional garb of witches and wizards, Pansy wore what looked to be a rather stylish pea-coat in a flattering shade of army green. Just dark enough to highlight her pale, porcelain skin, but light enough to complement the dark hue of her irises. Her slender fingers—decorated with an assortment of flashy rings, of course—were wrapped around her own piping-hot cup of tea.

Seeing his two friends filled him with an odd sense of nostalgia, a sudden pulse of old memories pushing through his mind before the blonde forced them away with a brisk shake of his head. Draco drew in a slow breath before carefully picking his way through the crowd towards the booth. 

“—it’s fascinating, really, just how strangely detailed the muggles are.”

“Is that so, Pansy?”

“Oh don’t sound so  _ droll _ , Zabini. All I’m saying is that you might find muggle medicine quite interesting.”

The sound of familiar bicker and banter and banter was enough to pull a ghost of a smirk to Draco’s lips as he cleared his throat to announce his presence. “I see you two are arguing as usual. Lovely way to start the afternoon, if I do say so myself. Pansy,  _ move _ . I need space to sit.” 

“Ah, yes, hello to you, too, sweetie.” Pansy didn’t miss a beat, cherry red lips curling into a fiendish grin as she shifted her slim frame aside to allow the blonde to slip into the booth. “You’re looking rather sickly, like a skeleton,” she added on bluntly as Draco rolled his eyes. She reached over with a cheeky grin to tap him lightly on the nose with a single finger--much to the blonde’s dismay. “You look like a sack of bones, Drac. Too busy seducing unsuspecting boys to make time for a solid meal, I take it?”

“Don’t be so crass, Pans.” Blaise’s low, amused drawl interrupted before Draco could get out his own snide quip. “I think Draco looks quite good, honestly.”

This time, Draco snorted. “But you’ve always had a thing for pretty boys like  _ me _ , haven’t you, B?” His confident snark earned a round of snickers from his two friends--and for the first time in weeks, the blonde felt the tension held in his body slowly melt away. He felt his own lips curl into an amused grin as the handsome young man across from him smirked in response.

“You know me far too well,” Blaise commented coolly, plucking the enchanted spoon out from his tea and setting it aside.

Draco was on the verge of reaching for his own teacup and the small kettle tucked towards the end of the table when Pansy’s sharp elbow dug into his side, pulling a startled noise of distress from him. “Oi! What was that for?”

“We haven’t seen each other in weeks, Draco. You’re  _ obligated _ to begin with an update on your life. I won’t let you pretend to be cool like you always  _ try _ to do--”

“I don’t  _ pretend _ ,” Draco protested with a frown.

“--and you haven’t even written back to most of my letters. You really should invest in a mobile phone, you know,” the dark-haired witch continued with an impatient sounding huff. Narrowing dark eyes into slits, Pansy shot Draco a pointed sideways look. “Some of us actually worry about you, you know.”

He resigned himself to merely scowl in response--though he knew it looked more like a  _ pout _ than a menacing glower. The three friends earned themselves a nasty reputation during their Hogwarts years for cruelty and a gross abuse of power--rightfully so, really--but when in private, there was an odd sense of family found between them. Draco’s mother and father were constant figures in his life, surely, but the Parkinson’s were scattered and distant while Blaise’s mother--the matriarch of the Zabini family--saw her son as more of a beautifully-sculpted pawn than a child.

Over the years, the three of them gravitated towards each other--and while emotional vulnerability often left Draco paralyzed with fear, there was a sense of comfort that swaddled him up whenever the three of them sat together.

Just like right now.

“Pans’ right.” Blaise’s lazy drawl pulled Draco back to the present, forcing storm-gray eyes back up to meet the other’s hazel hues. “You’ve really been locking yourself up in that flat of yours. I was starting to think we’d have to personally show up and destroy the door to find you.”

His words were light and half-joking, but Draco could feel his chest twinge slightly at the implications behind their words.  _ They worried about him _ . They actually, truly worried about him. If he were a weaker man, Draco was sure there would have been tears in his eyes--but for now, he resolved to simply let out a tired-sounding sigh and shrugged his shoulders. 

“Life’s been a right  _ git _ , really,” Draco finally commented as calmly as he could manage, occupying himself by pouring out a small cup of tea for himself. “The godforsaken Ministry has me running around like their little bitch-boy.” He spooned two sugarcubes into the hot cup, swirling lazily. “... and they decided to assign me to  _ Potter _ .” Draco attempted to keep his tone as even and nonchalant as he possibly could--but that didn’t stop both Pansy and Blaise from choking on their tea.

“They  _ what? _ ”

“ _ Potter? _ ”

Draco groaned internally. “ _ Yes _ , Potter,” he drawled out slowly, refusing to let his expression falter as he lifted his cup to his lips to take a slow sip. He let out a soft hum, brows quirked ever so slightly. “This tea is delicious. Don’t you th…” His gaze lifted from his teacup only to see two very bewildered and wide-eyed faces staring at him owlishly. “Will the two of you stop staring at me like that?  _ Merlin _ ,” Draco hissed, setting his cup down against the saucer with just a touch more force than necessary. 

“And you’re just taking this lying down?” Pansy asked incredulously, her words coated thick with disbelief. Blaise didn’t even bother commenting, merely nodding in agreement with her--which only pulled another exasperated sigh from Draco.

“I don’t really have much of a  _ choice _ , really, now do I? You know how the Ministry is.” The blonde knew his words were a touch more hostile than he had intended. “My father’s locked up in Azkaban and my mother moved to France to hide out for a bit. The least  _ I  _ can do to save some face so that mother can be safe is to do what they ask of me,” he pressed on stubbornly, pointedly looking away from both of them. “... even if it means following  _ Snotter _ around.”

The nickname was enough to earn a few hushed snickers from the two and that was enough to make Draco smirk just slightly. “Neither of you will be surprised to hear that he’s still just as much of a blubbering  _ fool _ as he was back in school. I don’t know how one survives with a skull that thick,” he added on thoughtfully.

“God only knows, Drac.” Pansy huffed with an eyeroll, nudging him slightly again. “But really, not even Potter’s idiocy is a match for Blaise. You know he was telling me about how he nearly hexed his own fingers off at work the other day?”

“Oh?” Draco hummed, brows raising ever so slightly as he shot the other wizard a half-amused look. “Is that so, B?”

“Don’t look so smug, Drac. Weren’t you the one who got turned into a ferret a couple years ago?” the other retorted with a smirk. Blaise’s snide comeback was enough to make Pansy burst into a fit of giggles while Draco gave him a pointed glare--though it lacked any real malice.

“That’s a low blow, Zabini.”

“And you  _ love _ it, Malfoy, let’s not lie.”

“Now, now, boys, let’s settle down. The sexual tension in this booth might just  _ suffocate _ me.” 

\---

Draco’s sides hurt from the sheer amount of laughter and snickering that had come out of his tea-visit with his friends. Seeing both Pansy and Blaise after what felt like an eternity had lifted much of the tension that had weighed down upon his weary shoulders, helping him feel at peace for the first time in forever. His cheeks hurt from smiling too much and too widely, but that didn’t stop the lingering amusement from faltering as he apparated back to his flat.

With a low sigh, he began to shrug off his cloak. His thoughts began to wander to how, perhaps, the direction of his life wasn’t nearly as bleak as he had originally thought. The fall of the Malfoy legacy had been a harsh blow to both Draco and his mother after Lucius was sentenced to a short stint in Azkaban. With the patriarch locked away, Narcissa found herself alone and under the glaring attention of the public.

While Draco’s mother was a strong and formidable woman, he couldn’t help but worry for her; it had been Draco that urged Narcissa to move to their rest home in France while the processions and legal matters settled down--and until then, the former Slytherin was determined to make things work on his own. It had been a difficult and trying transition, but it was all he had left.

Seeing both Pansy and Blaise was the highlight of the past two months, he had to admit, and he was (begrudgingly) grateful to Dr. Caudwell for her suggestion--not that he would ever admit to it.

Instead, he exhaled a breath and shuffled into the kitchen area to fetch himself a glass. After a day spent out socializing, Draco only thought it would be fitting to reward himself with a glass of his most expensive wine. He took his time to sort out through his cabinet of spirits, settling on an aged bottle from one of the finest grape-growing regions of France and carefully uncorked it.

The rich, full-bodied aroma lifted his spirits even further, allowing the relaxed smile on Draco’s lips to remain in place as he carefully poured himself a glass of the rich red liquid. Re-corking the bottle and setting it aside, Draco curled slender fingers around the glass and lifted it to his lips to take a single, slow sip.

The familiar taste of sweetened red wine was enough to make Draco exhale a quiet, almost wistful sigh as he shuffled back towards the couch. He intended to curl up against the cushions and sip his wine while he read a book--the perfect end to a much needed day of relaxation and self-help. 

As Draco climbed his way up onto the sofa, he pulled his knees up to his chest and rested the glass of wine lightly against it as his other hand plucked up the book resting on the coffee table.

The words on the page he flipped to entranced him, allowing Draco to slowly unwind and relax with his glass of wine in hand. He felt the tension in the pit of his stomach slowly uncoil as he rested his head back against the cushions, on the verge of letting himself doze off for a moment when urgent knocking at the door to his flat rudely jolted the blonde back to attention.

“What in  _ Merlin’s _ saggy left testicle...” he cursed under his breath, careful not to spill any wine as he set his glass down. He tossed his book aside listlessly before trudging up onto his feet and towards the door. How  _ rude _ of this sudden visitor to interrupt him during his much-needed time off. When an annoyed snort, Draco held his head high and swung open the door with the sort of flair that only a Malfoy could possess. 

“I am absolutely  _ not _ interested in buying any mystery-flavored pasties, thank you very m--” the blonde began snidely before his words choked up in his throat once he registered exactly  _ who _ was standing at his doorstep. Draco nearly sputtered as gray eyes stretched wide with thinly-veiled horror mingled with shock.

“ _ Potter? _ What in the bloody  _ hell _ are you doing here?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Potter? What in the bloody hell are you doing here?"

Thin fingers moved carefully to envelop the small, porcelain teacup. Steam curled into the air in soft, feathery tendrils before dissolving into nothing, and as Draco inhaled slowly, the familiar aroma of chamomile and jasmine flooded his senses. Tea was meant for relaxation, meant to calm your frayed nerves and to ease the worries weighing down upon your chest--and while the blonde-haired man often turned to a fresh cuppa to decompress, he could hardly ignore the nauseating twist within the pit of his stomach. 

All because of stinking  _ Potter _ .

He could feel green eyes boring into him with an almost painful level of scrutiny and with each passing second, Draco felt his lips twitch with distaste. He didn’t dare allow his resolve to crumble, leveling Snotter with an equally cold, equally calculating glare. Sharp jaw was set in annoyance and as he tapped the silver gilded spoon clasped between his fingers noisily against the inside of his teacup, Draco cleared his throat. It was the first sound to cut through the disconcerting silence since the other wizard had all but materialized at his doorstep. 

“You do realize,” Draco started, his tone little more than a low, incredulous drawl, “that stalking is an offensive crime. Even if you are the supposed Chosen One.”

An irritated scoff followed and it took whatever remaining willpower Draco possessed to keep form hexing Potter into the next century. “I wasn’t stalking you, Malfoy.”

“Oh no?” He quirked a finely done brow with faux surprise. “Then surely there has to be an explanation as to why in Merlin’s name you showed up at my home.” Each word that left Draco’s lips grew increasingly more irritated, serrated edge almost tangible as his spoon clinked startlingly against his porcelain cup once more.

He tilted his head to the side and fixed the dark-haired man with an expectant look, passive gray hues searching the other’s expression -- and sure enough, Potter had the decency to duck and dropped his gaze. Draco watched with passive annoyance as Potter mumbled something under his breath.

A sharp clink of porcelain against porcelain was all the blonde managed as a sigh of deep exasperation puffed past his lips. He placed his saucer and teacup down against his coffee table before leveling Potter with a sharp look. “I’m giving you two minutes to explain yourself before I file a complaint to the Ministry. Say what you want about me and my lowly position, Potter,” he spat out his name as if it were poison on his tongue, “but following me to my home isn’t ideal behavior for the Prophet’s poster boy, now is it?”

“Alright, alright! Christ, Malfoy, I’m not--” 

“You’re not what?” Draco demanded -- much to Potter’s dismay. He remained poised in his seat, slender hands folded neatly in his lap as the dark-haired man fixed him with a pointed glare.

“I’m not  _ following _ you anywhere.” He gritted words out between clenched teeth -- as if having to explain himself to Draco was worse than any Cruciatus curse dealt out by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself.

A beat of uncomfortable silence follows before Draco resigned himself into heaving a deep sigh of pure exhaustion. “You’re insufferable,” he mused after a moment, storm-gray hues fluttering shut. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sucked in a slow breath to calm his frayed nerves -- and much to his dismay, Potter simply had to open his mouth again.

“Not the first time I’ve heard you say that,” Potter pointed out, much to Draco’s chagrin. 

“Are you going to explain why you’re here or not?”

Draco’s cold sneer was enough to force the other man to scowl -- but the blonde paid no mind. He lifted his head up and fixed Potter with an expectant glare, long legs crossed and fingers tapping along the armrest of his seat. 

Another moment of silence followed before finally, Potter spoke. “You never showed up today.”

A beat of silence and then another -- and Draco couldn’t help but gawk incredulously at the other. “You--” A cough, a sputter, and fingers flexing rather dangerously, he began again, “You… showed up at my flat, in the middle of London,  _ unannounced _ , with  _ no way _ of knowing this address without some minor  _ stalking… _ simply because I  _ missed work this morning? _ ” The absolute exasperation cut through the air almost viscerally as Draco’s eyes narrowed with disbelief.

Potter, at the very least, had the decency to look almost embarrassed. The dark-haired wizard stirred uncomfortably in his seat, large hand lifting to rub at the back of his neck before he finally cleared his throat in response. “Erm… yes.” It was almost painfully obvious to Draco just how hard he was trying to reign his composure in. “Though, when you put it like that, it sounds almost criminal.”

“It _ is _ criminal, you absolute sod!” Draco burst out without warning, shooting upright from his seat. Teeth were clenched tightly and it took whatever self restraint Draco had left to keep his hands balled into tight fists at his side rather than reaching for his wand. Potter, on the other hand, didn’t budge one bit in spite of the blonde’s sudden fit of (rather  _ justified _ ) rage. Green hues merely gazed back at him with only mild surprise, thick brows quirked and lips curled into what Draco could only label a  _ stupidly idiotic frown _ .

“I wouldn’t say I was unjustified,” Potter continued on, tone calm and almost matter-of-fact. It was enough to pull a loud noise of pure exasperation from Draco lips. 

“And what in Merlin’s name would justify you _stalking_ me?”

“Your track record.”

_ Oh, low fucking blow _ .

Draco gritted his teeth, silently forcing himself to bite back the acidic response balancing at the very tip of his tongue. “For your information,” he finally began again, voice low and almost strained from the tautness of his tone, “I had  _ therapy _ and my  _ very real therapist _ decided it was best if I took the day off. You’re not the only one with war trauma, Potter.” It wasn’t a lie, really, and Draco could tell that the gravity of his rationale had hit Potter harder than the Hogwarts Express.

“I didn’t--of  _ course _ you’re not the only one--what I meant--”

“Cut the bullshit.” Draco sounded resigned, tired, as the anger finally subsided to give way to exhausted acceptances. A hand lifted to run through pale locks before Draco forced himself to look away. “I don’t want your excuses. Just say you don’t trust me.”

The blonde could pick up on the mild shuffling from Potter’s general direction, but he paid no mind. Instead, he turned pointedly on his heel to keep his back to the other. His movements were almost robotic as he reached down to pick up his teacup. His chamomile-and-jasmine brew had long since grown cold and Draco couldn’t find the energy within himself to cast a quick warming charm. 

Stupid, stinking,  _ wanna-be-a-hero _ Potter.

“You don’t think this whole thing is strange?”

Potter’s sudden outburst is enough to make Draco freeze halfway into arranging his teacup. A beat of silence followed before he swallowed the growing irritation prickling at his throat. “Be a little more specific,” he finally drawled out, “I can’t follow your pea-brained thoughts half the time.”

A tired groan was Potter’s only response before he stirred restlessly again. This time, Draco had the decency to look back at him, brows raised in mild curiosity.

“That the Ministry decided to pair us together?” Potter ventured again, head canting to the side.

Draco nearly felt the urge to scream. “Potter, surely you’re kidding, no?” The scathing sarcasm cut through his words with enough wit and bite to force the other wizard to look almost dumbfounded. With his teacup & saucer balanced precariously in one hand while the other remained perched on his hip, Draco fixed him with a mute glare. “If you think for  _ one second _ that I’m not suspicious of the Ministry’s choices over my actions, you’re truly dumber than even  _ I  _ imagined. My entire life was spent being wary of your people. So yes, I  _ do _ find it strange. But not strange  _ enough _ to stalk my former nemesis to his own home.”

“ _ Former _ ?”

“Oh, for God’s sake--is  _ that _ your takeaway from everything I said?” Draco snapped in frustration.

Potter looked almost embarrassed, but Draco figured that’s just how his face looked most of the time. “Right--no. I got distracted. I still think you’re being dismissive.”

“You are  _ truly _ the most insufferable prat I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting.”

“Likewise, Malfoy.”

Draco could feel the beginnings of a migraine quietly pulse at the back of his skull. “Look,  _ Snotter-- _ ”

“How long are you going to keep calling me that?”

“--I literally could not care any  _ less _ than I already do about you  _ or _ your opinions,” Draco powered on, all but ignoring the other wizard’s question. “But rest assured. This seems to be the Ministry’s tacky, out-of-fashion way of making me suffer. That’s all you lot want, after all, now isn’t it? To see me toil and rot away for your viewing pleasure? So please. Spare me any subsequent torture you may have in mind and leave me  _ alone _ . It’s truly the least you can do.”

He didn’t bother waiting for his response, instead turning on his heel to march into the kitchen. He set his teacup down with slightly more force than necessary into the sink, wincing only slightly as it clattered against the metal basin. He grabbed for his wand, muttering a quick spell under his breath to animate the sponge and soap and watched with mild annoyance as the objects danced to life. He willed himself to stare down into the sink in an attempt at ignoring Potter as best as he could. 

The sins of one’s father were difficult to erase. No matter how often Draco scrubbed his hands clean--until his skin was raw and cracked or his knuckles bled and the soap began to sting--he knew the blood would remain. The Malfoy legacy had danced in and out of bloodshed for generations. It was no secret, and yet, Draco couldn’t help but yearn for a life free of generational expectations.

He was never allowed to be just a boy. He was Draco, son of Narcissa and Lucius, heir to the Malfoy name and wealth. He was Voldemort’s pawn to infiltrate his own home away from home. And more than anything, he was an instrument of war. 

But what if all he had ever wanted was to be just a boy?

Draco swallowed the lump caught in his throat, angry heart burning behind his eyelids as he forced them shut. Fuck Potter and his assumptions. Fuck  _ Potter _ , fuck the  _ Ministry _ , fuck  _ everyone _ who wanted to take what little he had left away from him. He wasn’t perfect--far from it--but didn’t he deserve some peace of mind, too?

“Erm--Malfoy.”

“ _ Bloody hell! _ ” Draco shouted, all but jumping a meter into the air as sudden surprise & fear gripped his heart. He whirled around, sharp gasp escaping him as gray eyes--stretched wide with shock--locked onto Potter… who looked equally as frightened. The dark-haired man took an immediate defensive stance--legs set apart, hand at his hip to draw out his wand--and his gaze was alarmed. “What in--Christ! Don’t you know better than to _ sneak up  _ on someone? In their own home, no less! Merlin, it’s like they don’t teach manners like they used to!” Draco’s frustration prickled angrily through his words.

“Right, well. Old habits die hard,” Potter finally amended.

“Pardon?”

Potter shook his head and bit his lip--almost as if there was an inside joke lurking at the tip of his tongue. “I… used to sneak around my Aunt Petunia’s home all the time. So it’s an old habit.”

The utter confusion on Draco’s face must have been palpable.

“Never mind,” the auror continued tiredly. He straightened, hand smoothing out the wrinkles in his robe and dust off whatever imaginary dust may have been clinging to the fabric. He straightened, shoulders rolling before he finally opened his mouth to speak once again. “I realize now that… showing up here without warning wasn’t exactly…  _ professional _ .”

Draco couldn’t help but gawk at him, mild horror mingled with realization at the fact that this was Potter’s half-arsed attempt at an apology. 

“The war is behind us,” Potter continued brazenly—much to Draco’s continued chagrin, “and it isn’t exactly fair of me to hold it all against you, innit?”

The blonde found himself all but dumbfounded into pure silence, blinking once and then twice before clearing his throat awkwardly. “Right,” he began rightly, leaning back against the edge of the basin. 

“We can call it a truce?”

“A truce,” Draco echoed slowly, reluctance staining his voice. 

Potter bobbed his head in an awkward nod before clearing his throat, large hand running through messy locks before finally letting his lips curl into an awkward, lopsided grin. “And... sorry, I guess.”

“Ah, so you  _ do _ know how to apologize.”

“Don’t make me regret it already.”

He exhaled a resigned sigh, head shaking in resignation. “Well, now that we’ve gotten all that bullshit out of the way,” Draco amended coolly, “I might as well fix us each a cuppa.”

“What?” Potter squawked in surprise. “Erm—there’s no need for that. I can leave now that we’ve gotten all of that sorted.”

Draco waved a hand dismissively, his other reaching for his wand yet again. “Oh, shut up, why don’t you? I was going to make myself a fresh one, as it is. My first cup got cold,” he mourned. A flick of his wrist brought his kettle to life, scraped and worn silver growing hot atop the stove. Another charm sent two fresh teacups whizzing through the air, forcing Potter to let out a rather undignified yelp before ducking his head to prevent one from whacking him square in the face. Draco all but smirked to himself, an amused hum spilling from his lips. “Seven years of quidditch and you  _ still _ can’t dodge flying objects, hm?”

“Sod off, you could hardly catch a snitch from what I remember.”

An eye roll is all Draco bothered dignifying the other with in response, instead turning to the cupboard. Deft fingers sorted through the neatly arranged boxes of tea. “Are you an herbal or fruit type of fellow?”

“I can’t tell if that is some sort of euphemism, or…”

“It’s tea, you _ shit-for-brains _ .”

A mild scoff followed Draco’s worm-our insult. “Anything cinnamon. And if not cinnamon, then citrus.”

Draco opted to say no more, instead plucking out a teabag from a box that had remained all but untouched. A spice-blend brew of tea, heavy on the cinnamon and nutmeg. It had been a gift from one of his private tutors during the summer prior to the start of their seventh year. A nice woman of Indian descent—pure of blood, naturally. She had gone home to her family for a number of days and when she returned, her bags held gifts aplenty. 

She remembered that Draco started every lesson with a fresh cup of tea, warmed by simple heating charm, so it felt only natural to bring him a spicy tea from her homeland. At the time, Draco had been speechless. He had never been short of gifts or material possessions. Lucius and Narcissa has both been attentive in that facet of his life—but this felt,.. almost different. 

Someone had seen him—truly seen him—and cared enough to bring him something that catered to one of his interests. 

He didn’t have the heart to tell her that he never really enjoyed the taste of cinnamon. The Malfoy heir took it gratefully and murmured a polite ‘thank you.’

A few weeks after that, summer came to a close. The war came to a head. And he hadn’t seen her since. 

It felt wrong to let Potter experience that side of his life—even if it was just a single teabag. Draco almost scowled to himself and nearly talked himself out of his half-hearted peace offering—but the sound of his awkward milling pulled him back to reality. 

“At least make yourself somewhat useful,” Draco grunted as he turned on his heel. “Fetch me the kettle, won’t you? I’m sure it’s about ready—“

The blonde’s words were drowned out by the shrill screech of the kettle wailing readily upon the stove. He couldn’t help but roll his eyes as Potter all but jumped, racing to lower the heat and bring it over. Draco carefully placed a teabag in each cup before shifting enough to make room for the other. 

He watched with mild interest as Potter carefully rationed out boiling water into each one, fresh steam curling into the air in feathery tendrils. “The cinnamon one is yours,” Draco explained calmly, slender hands cupping around the opposing cup. He inhaled after a moment, breathing in the familiar warmth of jasmine and chamomile. It was enough to soothe his nerves, carefully pulling apart the knot tied in the pit of his stomach. 

It was almost enough to help him ignore Potter fully—but as the other wizard sipped his tea (noisily), he couldn’t help but let out a tired sigh. 

A beat of uncomfortable silence passed over them, each man sipping quietly as they stood idly in the small kitchen. 

“It’s good,” Potter finally commented, breaking the peace with his awkward half-compliment. 

“Good.” Draco couldn’t help the slight sarcasm that crept into his voice. “I’m absolutely  _ thrilled _ to know that these teabags suit your standards.”

Another moment of brief silence. 

Draco stares blankly down into his teacup and a thought occurred to him. “So where exactly did you find my address, anyway?”

Potter looked almost embarrassed and took a great deal of interest in the burnt orange color of his tea. Broad shoulders lifted in a half-hearted shrug. “The Ministry has files on all of its employees.”

Draco quirked his brows. “Interestingly enough,” he began dryly, “I do believe that you were the one who so kindly pointed out that I, what was it?  _ Hardly qualify as an employee? _ ”

“You know what I meant, Malfoy.”

“So touchy.”

The other man looked miffed yet again. “I simply mean that your new address was listed in your records.”

“And aren’t those records supposed to be  _ classified _ ?” Draco wasn’t quite sure why he asked. The Chosen One could say he wanted a raw quail stuffed with pig’s feet and the Ministry would have it promptly delivered to Grimmauld Place for him, complete with a silver ribbon and a note from the Minister to thank him for his service. The blonde raised his cup to his lips and took another slow sip of tea. “Though, I suppose. Nothing is  _ technically _ classified for you,” he commented idly. 

Potter groaned audibly and, in spite of himself, Draco smirked. It was a small triumph, but a triumph nonetheless. The hypocrisy of so-called heroes never failed to amuse him. “You lot talk quite a bit about justice and fairness, but when it comes to exploiting your power, it’s all fair game, hm?”

_ Sip, sip.  _

“I’m sure your address is public knowledge, anyway,” Potter pressed on, only slightly disgruntled. 

Draco gave a small  _ tsk _ in response, shaking his head. “As a matter of fact,  _ no _ . After I left the manor, we’ve been quite careful about staying out of the public eye.”

“Is that why you moved? To stay out of the public eye?”

Draco almost choked on his tea. He coughed, sputtered, and quickly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand—much to Potter’s clear bewilderment. “Are you really  _ that _ dense?” Draco snorted incredulously, disbelief lighting up the stormy at of his irises. 

“Erm—pardon?”

Another deep sigh—and this time, Draco could feel that impending migraine only gain traction. “Unlike  _ you _ , not all of us wanted the glory of the Chosen One’s fame.” His voice was far less sarcastic this time around, but it does little to quell the bitterness behind Draco’s words. “You and your weasel friend and Granger may have the riches and fame, but we ended up with Azkaban and mobs on our tails. Of course I moved to stay out of the public eye.”

“Well, it’s… kind of inevitable, isn’t it?”

Draco’s mouth felt dry. He couldn’t argue right now—not with how exhausted he felt. His bones were weary and his mind addled with the pain of a war he never wanted to fight. How could he explain it to Potter? How could he get it through his thick skull that he was sorry? That he didn’t want to kill? That it was Dumbledore or his family? That he was just a boy—

“It is.” Draco surprised even himself by the somber edge to his careful tone. “But that doesn’t make it any easier.”

It was enough to make Potter fall silent, too—an inadvertent blessing for Draco. The dark haired wizard sipped again, savoring the spiced flavor on his tongue before finally clearing his throat. “Right.” His voice wavered almost awkwardly. “‘M sorry.”

It was the second time Potter has apologized within the last six hours and Draco was truly starting to think he was ill. Or having a stroke. Or perhaps both. 

“It’s—fine.” Draco felt his voice break slightly, unsure of how else to respond. A shake of his head another slow sip of his tea followed suit before finally, the blonde surveyed Potter carefully. “If that’s what you think,” Draco ventured deliberately, “then why did you do what you did?”

He didn’t need to specify what he meant. Draco know that he knew exactly what he was referencing

And without missing a beat, Potter lifted his gaze to study Draco intensely. “Narcissa saved me. And I owed it to her.”

“That’s why you didn’t bother standing up for my father.”

“Lucius had it coming.”

Draco bit his tongue. His father was far from an ideal man; he was misguided, easily swayed—but everything he did had stemmed from a place of honorable loyalty to his family, his legacy, and his blood. Voldemort has threatened his son and his wife time and time again—and his only way to preserve his kin seemed to be via submission to the Dark Lord’s iron will. Draco understood Lucius’ motives, but he also understood why other may view him as spineless, foolish, evil. But that was still his father and he felt almost indebted to him in spite of the strained relationship they shared. 

“Right,” Draco gritted out carefully. “And me?” He sounded almost hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure whether he wanted an answer to the precarious question. Gray eyes lifted. He peered at Potter with intent, hoping to read something within the depths of his guarded gaze—but the other man turned on his heel and set his teacup down. 

“I think I’ve overstayed my welcome,” he answered. 

“Real smooth cop-out,  _ Snotter _ ,” Draco drawled, unimpressed as ever.

The other man merely gave his head a brisk shake, moving to adjust his cloak and tuck his wand neatly back into place. “Erm--thank you for the tea. It really was delicious.”

Draco gave a displeased eye-roll and sipped his tea rather than give him a verbal response. He lifted his teacup to his lips, letting it linger as the warmth radiated through the thin porcelain and seeped into his skin. He watched curiously as Potter set his teacup down and cast a quick wandless charm to clean it (so perhaps he did have some human decency) before turning to face the blonde. He gave a curt nod of his head--to which Draco merely raised his brows to--before taking a step back.

“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” Draco called out behind him, his tone little more than a resigned afterthought as Potter slipped outside his flat. He heard the lock click neatly into place before a muffled  _ pop _ sounded from the other side.

Silence enveloped the room once again--and for what felt like the umpteenth time that week, he found himself questioning just what the fuck was going on.

\---

_ Bizarre _ .

That seemed to be the only apt descriptor for their tense, uncomfortable, and overall awkward exchange. Harry cursed under his breath as the nauseating halt of apparition caused his stomach to stir. His feet hit the sturdy wooden floor abruptly--and the dark-haired wizard decided that no matter how many times he apparated in and out of place, it would never grow easier. He felt a twinge at his forehead, causing him to furrow his brows and mumble tiredly. 

The war’s tumultuous end had left his bolt-shaped scar all but forgotten beneath the mass of his raven-black curls--but sometimes, it drove him batshit crazy. “You don’t have to remind me,” Harry seethed bitterly under his breath--not that a soul could hear him. The empty corridors of 12 Grimmauld Place had become his refuge in recent years.

The public fiasco that occurred following his break-up with Ginny had been far too much for him to possibly handle -- and while he wished nothing but the best for the fiery-haired witch, Harry couldn’t quite quell the growing sense of loneliness that festered in the pit of his stomach. The flat he lived in previously had been all but paid for by the Ministry. A gift from the magical world for saving wizardingkind from the horrors of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named -- but it all felt hollow after she moved out.

It had been a mutual decision, for they realized that the love they shared for one another had been more familial than romantic. They were two teenagers trapped in a society crumbling around them -- and they had found peace within one another. Ginny’s schoolgirl crush had manifested into deep understanding, and in her, Harry had found a home. They were partners, friends, allies… but as the war came to a close and it was time to build a life, they realized that their initial spark had been spurned from a war torn background.

He loved her and she loved him--but it wasn’t the kind of love that lead to a whirlwind romance or courtship. It was the kind of love that nourished understanding -- so when Ginny earned herself a spot on the Harpies team, Harry knew it was time they close the last page to their chapter together.

Ginny packed her bags and Harry helped. Three weeks after her departure and amicable end to their relationship, it went public. Her press conferences became The Chosen One-centric and every interview Harry found himself tangled in had a question or two about Ginny. It was an adjustment--but the dark-haired man knew that he needed to find peace elsewhere.

And it was then that he missed Sirius the most.

To love then have lost, then to realize his loneliness was his greatest enemy--it was something he ached for Sirius’ counsel on. His godfather, with his eccentric stories and wild tales, always had the right words for him. 

But Sirius was gone, and the closest thing Harry had left was 12 Grimmauld Place.

He had apparated himself into the one room he found himself in -- the study. It was a small, cramped room tucked towards the back of the second floor. The desk was in disarray, files and documents scattered across the surface and numerous used quills left for dead alongside them. It was the one room he didn’t allow Kreacher to tidy up--though the house elf often insisted that he make an attempt at cleaning.

Green hues skimmed over the stack of folders pushed haphazardly to the top corner of his desk before the wizard exhaled a deep sigh. Harry slumped back against the edge of the structure, scarred fingers drumming absently along the top. Snippets of his conversation with malfoy bounced helplessly through his brain, tugging at his insides and leaving him perhaps even more confused than he had been earlier.

What had he been expecting, anyway? A hidden room beneath his flat with a stowaway of lost wizarding orphans? A secret shrine dedicated to resurrecting Voldemort, himself? A covert tunnel digging through his kitchen and into Azkaban to _ free Lucius? _

Harry scoffed under his breath at the sheer lunacy of the thought. Perhaps he was being paranoid--an inevitable effect of having the weight of the wizarding world on his shoulders. Malfoy seemed almost… harmless. Like an angry cat that had been sprayed with water for misbehaving.

Lips twitched into a half-frown as he felt something stir within his chest.

Did he…  _ feel bad for Malfoy? _

“No.” His low, baritone voice reverberated against the rickety walls. Harry flared his nostrils and exhaled a sharp breath. “There’s no way.”

Harry Potter was a lot of things -- but one thing he wasn’t was confident.

Throughout the years, he had relied on Ron and Hermione for support--and eventually Ginny, too. But now, he was alone and forced to grapple with the sheer reality of right versus wrong on his own terms. And Merlin, was it exhausting.

Harry tilted his head back and stared blankly at the ceiling for a long beat before finally conceding. He needed advice -- and no matter how much he ached for his godfather’s counsel, he knew it wasn’t possible. He straightened, blindly grasping for a quill and an untouched scrap of parchment. Harry’s knee rested against the side of the desk for support as he leaned over it, quickly pushing his spectacles higher up along the bridge of his nose to keep it from slipping.

The note he penned was scrawled messily -- hasty and haphazard -- but he knew the recipient wouldn’t mind. He folded it quickly, hissing under his breath as the jagged edge of the parchment left a small scrape against his index finger. He stuck the bloodied digit into his mouth as his free hand held the letter. 

Finding the large, gray-feathered owl wasn’t all too difficult. Orion had been a gift from Molly soon after the completion of their eighth and final year -- and while the new bird could never quite replace Hedwig, having a companion was nice, nonetheless. “ _ Oi _ ,” Harry whispered quietly, gently poking the owl’s wing. 

The creature let out a small hoot of surprise, wide amber eyes blinking open. “Deliver this for me, yeah?” Harry’s tone was quiet and reserved--as if he were sharing a secret with the owl--as he tied it to Orion’s leg. He gave the bird’s beak one gentle tap and watched as Orion ruffled his feathers and poised himself for flight.

“Thanks, mate,” Harry amended softly with a tired half-smile, reaching to open the window wide. He took a step back before Orion stretched his wings and took off. He watched with careful intent as the bird ducked into the setting sky, gray figure winking away into nothing.

And just like that, Harry was alone once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PHEW this one! took some effort at first but I think i'm happy with the direction it went. hope you guys enjoyed and don't forget to leave a comment / kudos if you enjoyed!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco shot them both a muted glare before sharply kicking Blaise’s shin beneath the table; the other hissed in protest and Draco gave a haughty sniff of indignance. “I’m not obsessed,” he gritted out through his teeth, tone bone-dry and lacking any semblance of amusement.
> 
> “Oh, please,” Pansy scoffed. “You spent seven years obsessing over Potter this, Potter that! Oh, did you see he was made Seeker? Oh, did you see that my broom is nicer than Potter’s? Oh, bloody hell, is that Potter being suspiciously Potter-like at the end of the Great Hall?” Each one of her exclamations were wailed out with a shrill, pitched cadence. Pansy’s feigned-distraught expression contorted momentarily before it finally fell slack, a knowing look taking over in its stead as she raised her brows. “I do believe, my sweet, that that is nothing short of obsession.”

The ambient babble echoing against the Three Broomsticks’ cramped walls was a welcome reprieve from the brittle winter air sweeping through the door each time it creaked to life, bustling patrons ducking in and out of the inviting warmth Harry had chosen to take solace in for the past hour and a half; admittedly, he had done nothing but tuck himself into the most snug corner he could find on the farthest reach of the pub, scarred hands wrapped neatly around a mug of butterbeer for the better part of his time there--but then again, the nostalgic atmosphere was enough to quell the bundle of anxiety that seemed to have nothing better to do than tap-dance its way through the pit of his stomach as the seconds ticked by.

There was a level of anonymity that Harry could objectively appreciate within the shadows of the Three Broomsticks; while the Chosen One, himself, had spent the far too many months blinded by the whiplash fame thrust upon his shoulders at the peak celebrations following the war, Harry couldn’t help the way his feet had dragged uselessly on the ground with each step he took. He found himself glancing over his shoulder warily no matter where he went and the adoration fawned upon him at every corner had only left him feeling hollow and ill. 

_ Our Saviour, the Hero of our Prophecies, The Invincibility of The Boy Who Lived _ \-- the preposterous headlines had only managed to supplant the brewing frustration that threatened to make Harry vomit each time he was forced to contend with yet another interview with the Prophet’s celebrity columnist. 

Matters had only grown far more brutal in terms of the public eye when he and Ginny had met their untimely demise as a couple; while the split itself was amicable by nature, the press had a rather nasty penchant for spinning stories with malicious intent to earn them the ratings they so desperately thirsted for. Rumors of infidelity, post-war hatred, and screaming-matches hidden behind closed doors had hit the presses before either of them had even finalized the youngest Weasley’s move from their shared flat. 

Suffice to say that Molly Weasley’s frantic howlers had been the least of their troubles when word of mouth had all but consumed Britain’s magical community in celebrity-esque hysteria. It had been that moment alone that forced Harry to resign himself to all things related to his own unfortunate fame with a tired groan and a frustrated curse. The Holyhead Harpies had called for Ginny and with the way both halves of the fated pair had their own metaphorical shit to sort through, their departure from a romantic relationship had come with an odd sense of relief. 

It had been perhaps the most adult decision Harry had made since the numerous life-changing, world-dependent choices he had been forced to make for the better part of his adolescence. He loved her--still did, were he being honest--but the mature side of him had realized that the entanglement he felt with the youngest Weasley was a love that stemmed from mutual understanding, a bond that had been formed from years of fighting the same war hand in hand; the comfort they had basked in since then had been one they sought solace in when nothing else in their dysfunctional world made sense--but that didn’t mean they were  _ in _ love with each other.

No matter what the Prophet’s gossip column had to say regarding their relationship, Harry remained confident in the unrelenting connection he and Ginny had built together. The adjustment period following their ultimate break-up had been jarring; Harry had felt pathetic when he first confessed to his friends how the nightmares had returned the moment his bed felt too empty, too lonesome or how he still turned in the kitchen with Ginny’s name dancing upon his tongue, ready to recount the harrowing tales of his latest auror-related adventure. 

Perhaps the sudden solitude was far too reminiscent of his hollow years tucked away in a cellar beneath the staircase with nothing but small, plastic toys to keep him company. The wide world suddenly felt too large, too intimidating--and with so many eyes on him, his newfound bachelorhood felt almost as much of a prison as his union with Ginny had been. He persevered nonetheless--and after moving the remainder of his belongings into the home his godfather had left to him, the lonesome nights began to feel easier. The nightmares, while not completely silenced, were fewer and farther between--and soon enough, the only one Harry called out for on instinct was Kreacher in all of his hobbling glory.

Picking up the pieces of a life he hadn’t fully even adjusted to was a lofty task in itself--but the more he considered it, the more the auror realized that his lonesome status was more of a blessing than a curse. And, frankly, it did help that Ginny was no more than an owl away. He often looked to the other in his times of need--when conflict grew too difficult to decipher with his own two hands or when the unshakeable uncertainty began to overwhelm him altogether. Hermione and Ron would always be at his side, through evil and good, but the objective perspective that Ginny provided him with was unique.

It was that reason alone that he allowed his gaze to wander every few minutes with careful curiosity, picking through the crowds with a seeker’s eye to identify a head of fiery red locks amongst the homely crowds crammed around the tables scattered through the pub. Ginny’s response to his owl had been instantaneous; he had felt foolish for reaching out to her at all (last he checked, she had a rather important match coming up in Ireland to train for) but, as always, her dutiful adoration had yet to falter. 

Admittedly, Harry had arrived far earlier than they planned originally (his nervous tick of being apprehensive had won over yet again, hence showing up at the pub with two hours to spare on) and that alone was enough to force a tired sigh of defeat from parted lips.

He stared down into his mug, watching with idle interest as the foam finally deflated at its edges; the silken butterscotch clings to the inner walls of his glass and, for a moment, Harry was tempted to tilt his head back and scarf down what little remained. 

“Oy, are you planning on taking an O.W.L. on that butterbeer or are you gonna drink it?”

Ginny’s teasing drawl cut through the haze with sudden abruptness, causing Harry to hiss slightly as the glass slid from between his fingers. He caught it as quickly as he could, albeit somewhat gracelessly, before letting a wide-eyed gaze dart up to meet the red-head’s warm smile of amusement. Harry grumbled in response--though the downturned frown that had initially marred his features faded quickly to swell into a lazy, lop-sided grin. 

“Sod off, Weasley.”

“You first, Potter.”

They stared into one another’s eyes for a long moment before finally, they each burst into peals of delighted laughter. The auror hauled himself upright onto his feet, strong arms wrapping around Ginny without hesitation. He was relieved to feel the equal pressure of her embrace--tight, almost too-tight, but full of unyielding affection. They remained wrapped up in each other’s arms for a few more heartbeats before reluctantly, Harry drew himself back. His hands found solace upon her shoulders, holding her steady as he observed her with furrowed brows. “Looking healthy, I see. The Harpies haven’t killed you yet.”

“Not everyone is Gryffindor’s prized Seeker, y’know, but that doesn’t mean I can’t show the team who’s boss!” Ginny’s bright brown eyes twinkled in the dim light as her widening smile threatened to split her face in half. Another warm chuckle bubbled from her throat as she leaned in to peck Harry’s cheek delicately. “Luna gives you her love, also.”

It was enough to uncoil the snake of tension wrapped tightly around his heart; in the past few weeks, Ginny and Luna had found their own place to call home--and while the press had yet another field day with the fact that the strange Lovegood child had managed to sweep in and steal Ginny’s heart so soon after her break-up with Harry, the auror himself had been nothing but smiles from the moment she broke the news to him. He and Luna had hardly the time to catch up in between their conflicting schedules--but Harry had always been grateful to the eccentric woman. Her whimsical attitude was a wonderful match for Ginny, to boot, and while Harry still adjusted to bachelordom with hesitant intent, he was proud of Ginny for finding herself a partner Harry couldn’t applaud any more than he did for Luna.

“I hope you give her my love, as well, and then some. Merlin knows I haven’t seen her in what feels like years now,” Harry amended quickly, giving Ginny’s hand one last squeeze. He wasted no time in settling back into his side of the booth, gaze lifting to watch as the youngest Weasley wedged herself into the opposing side. 

“You saw her two weeks ago at the Burrow, Harry,” Ginny reminded him playfully, eyes rolling in tandem with her hands as they moved to unwrap her scarf from her neck. “When mum made us all gather for her famous minced beef stew, remember?”

“How could I forget.” Harry’s teasing groan was light-hearted as a fond flicker lit up his eyes. Molly Weasley, like the mother he had never had the opportunity to have, never ceased to fawn over him even after all these years; she all but insisted that Harry come visit for the family’s famous stew and to spend the night regaling stories alongside his friends, comrades, and found-family. In spite of the time that had passed, there still remained a slight gap where Fred used to be--and while they often attempted to skirt over the matter as neatly as they could, there lingered a subtle sadness each time the Weasleys and company gathered close. Still, though--Harry enjoyed the occasional dinner-parties to their fullest. Molly would often saddle him with enough food to take back to his own flat to last him for the coming week, so he couldn’t at all complain. 

“I was eating stew for days. The auror department started complaining that I was stinking the place up like mince,” he teased with a lazy grin. He felt the tension gathered in his shoulders finally unwind, causing him to slouch back comfortably in his seat. 

Her laughter was soft but colored by amusement. She took the time to carefully pull her gloves off finger by finger before placing them against the table before she fixed Harry with a wide smile. “I’m sure mum would be a little too proud of herself for that.”

As Harry curled his hands around his heavy cup once more, the auror allowed himself to finally let his guard down altogether; the comfort he found in Ginny’s presence was a welcome reprieve from the thoughts of tense apprehension lingering within his bones as of recent--and as if on cue, Ginny’s warm expression faltered.

“Alright, go on. Spill.”

The sudden earnestness of her tone was enough to force Harry to bow his head sheepishly--like he had suddenly been caught doing something wrong like a child; his ears grew hot like they often would when Petunia berated him for something as inane as chewing too loudly or coughing out of line. “Dunno what you’re talking ‘bout, Gin,” he mumbled unconvincingly.

He didn’t need to lift his head to know that there was a look of exasperation upon her face. “Yeah, like hell. I’m not ‘Mione, y’know. If I have to squeeze it out of you, I will.”

Ginny’s blatant honesty was met with another laugh from Harry’s lips--though this time, the sound was quieter, more reserved. He occupied himself with another slow sip of his drink, allowing it to settle upon his tongue before finally, he heaved a sigh and let it clink against the droplet-slicked table. “Work has just been hard, y’know? I’ve been assigned to a new case…” Harry bit his tongue automatically, resisting the urge to vocally complain about exactly who he had been assigned to work with, “Things get tight around the department. We’re a little short staffed.” 

“Have you been getting enough sleep?” The concern was evident in her serious tone and Harry didn’t have to look up to know that she was staring him down with all the intent a professional Quidditch player could manage.

Harry shrugged, examining the bottom of his glass with sudden interest. “Yeah, mostly.”

“ _ Harry _ .”

He groaned. “Ginny?”

“Frankly, you look awful. Like you hadn’t had a proper sleep in weeks. And now you’re telling me you let them assign you to a new case? You can bear to tell the Ministry you’re overworked from time to time.” Her words took on a slightly hard edge. “Merlin knows they’d never  _ fire _ you.”

This time, Harry scoffed. “And let them give me special treatment like everyone expects me to get? No, thanks.”

“Now’s not the time to jump onto your moral high ground,  _ Mister Chosen One. _ ”

Christ, did he hate when she pulled that on him. As if Malfoy hadn’t made it a point to rub it in the other day--

“Harry, are you even listening?”

Her exasperation forced him to jolt out of his sour reel of thoughts, thick brows furrowed in irritation as his gaze finally lifted to meet hers with only mild hesitation. “Yes,” Harry lied reluctantly.

She looked unconvinced. Ginny crossed her arms across her chest and gave him a pointed look that was far too withering for Harry to continue maintaining eye contact; his gaze dropped and a hand lifted to rub at the back of his neck gingerly. The youngest Weasley finally exhaled a sigh of annoyance, shaking her head. “I think it would do you some good to take a break. You know,” she waved a hand in a vague gesture, “do something fun. Like Quidditch. Or get out there, try meeting someone who can help you relax…”

“ _ Ginny _ .” Harry’s groan was pointed and exhausted to the bone. “Don’t.”

“What!” she squawked, sounding almost defensive. “I, for one, think it would do you some good. You need that tension worked off of you.” Her words took on a meaningful edge and Harry shot her a pained sideways look. Her lecherous smirk only made the comment that much worse.

His cheeks felt hot all of a sudden and another groan followed closely after. “Yeah, well,” he grumbled under his breath, avoiding her gaze. “I don’t really have time or the options for that, now do I?”

“You’re telling me The Saviour of the Magical World doesn’t have options?” Her question reeked of sarcastic incredulousness, brown eyes blowing wide open as she placed a hand over her chest in mock surprise. “And here I thought the  _ Prophet _ was all but raving over all the women throwing themselves at Harry Potter whenever they could.”

He held his head in his hands, elbows propped against the table. “Ginny, stop that!” Harry hissed. The auror had the decency to look embarrassed, glancing quickly over his shoulder to ensure that no one had heard her blasphemous declaration. Finally, he gave her a hard look. “You know I never cared for that rubbish, anyway.”

Ginny’s mocking expression softened almost instantly, brows furrowing. “I jest, I jest.” She looked relieved to see Harry’s shoulders finally fall slack from the tension holding them up moments earlier. “But I really do think you should consider it… Ron and Hermione. I love them loads, to the moon and back, but… you know how they can be. And with how busy I’ve been an’ with getting things settled with Luna…” it was her turn to look sheepish now. 

Harry heaved a sigh. “I know.” He glanced up at her. “And that’s okay. I don’t mind, really.”

She looked ready to protest, but Ginny bit her tongue and inhaled a sigh instead. “Okay, good…” Harry could tell that there was more on her mind--he could read it in her furrowed brows and the way her teeth worried into her lower lip momentarily--but neither one of them chose to pursue the topic any further. A beat of silence followed before Ginny raised her head once more, a look of usual defiance flashing across her features once more. “So what’s this new case you’ve got on your plate?”

The change of subject from Harry’s marital affairs was a welcome shift. He straightened in his seat and rolled his shoulders. “Magical orphans disappearing off the streets. They’re unsure of how or why, just that they’ll go for a walk and never return.” 

“Any leads so far?”

Harry fell silent, looking down at the table. “None, yet.”

Carefully, Ginny reached across the table and placed her hand on top of his own. The gesture was soft, gentle--and without thinking, Harry squeezed back in return. A subtle but comforting gesture, it helped ease the nerves coiling tight within his frayed body for at least a moment. 

“You’ll figure it out, you always do,” Ginny pressed on sympathetically.

Harry hadn’t the heart to confess that, in truth, he didn’t know how to figure it out; his time with the aurors hadn’t been addled with prophecies, visions, or future-telling nightmares that his youth had been. He had no one’s help but his own (and his colleagues, but relying on them only made Harry feel that much gultier in the grand scheme of things.) But he didn’t want to confess to the anxieties lurking in his chest and instead, he nodded and offered an unconvinced smile in return. “Yeah, hopefully.” A quiet chuckle followed. “You’ll never guess who my partner is for this assignment, though.”

Ginny’s brows lifted in piqued curiosity. “Who?”

_ “Malfoy.” _ He groaned out the name with the characteristic disgust all of his mates often associated with the pestilence-personified blonde. Ginny’s immediate hiss of displeasure was enough to lift his spirits again.

_ “Malfoy? _ That git still works at the Ministry?”

He nodded. “Technically, he’s doing community service. I was told that he would be working under me as an assistant. So not really my partner, so to speak, but still. Talk about the worst of luck.”

“I’m so sorry. My condolences,” she murmured earnestly, giving him a sad look. “Must be worse than plucking Mandrakes for Sprout.”

“Merlin, don’t get me started. The git doesn’t show up to work half the time and has a rotten attitude still.”

“Checks out,” Ginny commented dryly with a smirk of her own. “Still lazy, still entitled. You shouldn’t sound so surprised.”

“Yeah,” Harry scoffed out, face contorting as if he had tasted something particularly foul. “You’d think after all these years, he’d learn how to be someone who isn’t half as annoying as he used to be.” Ginny’s snicker was enough to pull a smirk to his lips as he nestled back in his seat. 

“Well, enough prattling about Malfoy The more pressing concern is how can you make the twat’s life hell like he did to us, huh?”

Harry’s own lips curled into a wide grin. “I like the way you think, Weasley.”

\---

“Draco,  _ Draco!  _ Oy, Pansy to Malfoy, do you read me?”

The sensation of Pansy’s hand swatting against the backside of his skull was enough to pull a sharp hiss of annoyance through Draco’s gritted teeth. _ “Fuck off!”  _ the blonde snapped automatically, twisting in his seat to pointedly shove the witch away from him with a bony elbow. Pansy’s irritated growl in response was cut short as Draco gave her one last shove to put a fraction more space between them. When he finally straightened in his seat, he gave her a dirty sideways glare before reaching to smooth out his mussed locks back into place.

“Someone is catty,” Pansy finally observed, her own hands wandering to dust off her skirt. Blaise’s throaty chuckle was the only indication of the other’s investment into the petulant cat-fight that had just transpired--and in spite of it all, the Malfoy heir found his irritation prickling that much further. “Did ickle Potter twist your knickers into a wad last night?” Her mocking croon had Draco burying his face into his hands with a groan of utter resignation, thin shoulders hunched in defeat.

“For the last time, Parkinson,  _ shut up.” _ He sounded boneless and exhausted, exasperation leaving his lips in deep, upheaved sighs in spite of Pansy’s snickers of wild amusement. He knew it had been a mistake to admit to his friends what had transpired the night before. Expecting sympathy out of the two cruelest Slytherins he had grown up with was a long-shot in itself. Petty insults and mocking comments should have been expected. “ _ Snotter’s _ appearance was the most awful thing to happen to me, second only to having to hear your shrill voice every two seconds,” Draco countered snidely after a moment--though even he had to admit that his jeering tone lacked its usual finesse.

“You’re falling flat, Drac.” Blaise’s intentional observation was as deliberate as ever--and before he could even formulate a proper response with equal sincerity, a laugh bubbled from Pansy’s throat.

“I think the poor thing’s just tired,” Pansy finally amended; this time, her words softened and when she reached out for him, her fingers massaged against Draco’s scalp with uncharacteristic gentleness. He began to falter under the delicate ministrations, tension uncoiling from his shoulders until he went boneless altogether. When he groaned and tilted his head back into her touch, the young woman smiled ever so slightly. “No, really, Drac. We worry about you.”

The blonde didn’t need to lift his head to know that Blaise had nodded earnestly in solidarity. A tired sigh of resignation left his lips as he lifted a hand to rub at his eyes. “Like I said, I just couldn’t sleep. Even  _ after _ that lunk-headed sod decided to leave.” A deep, exaggerated sigh was tacked onto the end of his dramatic regaling of the night before and a round of sympathetic hums soon followed. 

Pansy’s hands didn’t falter as fingertips worked their way from the crown of his head down to the nape of his neck, only pausing as a light shiver worked its way down Draco’s spine. “I hope you told him to fuck off,” she commented.

“Of course he did,” Blaise answered on Draco’s behalf without a moment’s worth of hesitation. When gray hues lifted curiously, he was pleased to see the supportive half-smile lurking upon Blaise’s handsome features. “No way Drac would ever let the goddamn _ Chosen One  _ into his house with open arms.”

“True,” Pansy agreed, hands moving away now in favor of stirring a thin silver spoon through her lukewarm tea. “I just don’t get why he showed up, is all.”

“To make my life hell.” Draco’s sullen tone was nothing short of miserable as he tapped at the table with his nails. “That’s all he’s good for, remember?” He puffed his cheeks and looked down at his hands, carefully tugging the cuffs of his long-sleeved sweater lower to hide his knuckles.

Pansy snorted automatically. “You can say that again,” she commented. Her tone remained as dry and scathing as ever--and in spite of himself, Draco felt himself relax. No matter what transpired between the three friends, no matter how far or distant they became in terms of physical location, Draco knew all too well that he would always have them to turn to when the unyielding desire to talk shit about anything and everything that grated on his nerves.

The three of them were catty, no doubt, but the deep understanding they shared with one another was something he had found nowhere else. The growing loneliness that had crept up upon Draco in the months & years following his mother’s departure from the U.K. had left the youngest Malfoy with a certain level of uncertainty--and had Pansy nor Blaise been present to keep him grounded, he was sure he would have lost his mind in the war’s aftermath. With so little left for Draco to grasp onto following his father’s unsuccessful trial, there seemed to be no other option for him to take than to make do with what he had been given.

Granted, the sleepy hollow of a flat he had taken residence in, while far more modest than the manor he had been raised in, was a welcome escape from the incessant whisperings that proved to be inescapable. The eerie mumbles and sideways glances were bountiful no matter where he went--and at least in the muggle stretches of London, Draco didn’t have to contend with the reality of his blood-stained legacy. Still, though--he often grew weary and ached for the familiar touch of his magical upbringing and afternoons like this, tucked away in a corner booth of a muggle cafe with Pansy pestering him at his side and Blaise’s observant gaze watching over them like a resigned parent, helped salvage some sense of normalcy into his pathetic attempt at a livelihood.

The gut-instinct to reach for his wand to reheat his cappuccino made his bones itch. Thin fingers clasped tightly around the round mug, mumbling a quiet wandless spell under his breath. Muted sparks of magic jumped to life beneath his furrowed-brows and diligent concentration and, soon enough, the porcelain walls of his drink grew warm under his touch. He raised it to his lips before taking a slow, deliberate sip.

“He wanted to know why I hadn’t shown up at the office,” Draco explained after a steady beat, his tone careful and even. Pansy’s sneer was impossible to miss and as Draco peered up at Blaise, he noticed the other roll his eyes in tandem with the other. 

“Still obsessed with keeping you in line, eh?” Pansy quipped as her heeled boots clicked lightly against the linoleum floor underfoot. Blaise snickered, though he had the decency to mask the sound behind a hand. 

“They’ve been obsessed with each other for years, Pans. Can’t say I’m surprised that Potter hasn’t grown out of the habit just yet.

Draco shot them both a muted glare before sharply kicking Blaise’s shin beneath the table; the other hissed in protest and Draco gave a haughty sniff of indignance. “I’m not obsessed,” he gritted out through his teeth, tone bone-dry and lacking any semblance of amusement.

“Oh,  _ please _ ,” Pansy scoffed. “You spent seven years obsessing over Potter  _ this _ , Potter  _ that! _ Oh, did you see he was made Seeker? Oh, did you see that my broom is nicer than Potter’s? Oh, bloody hell, is that Potter being suspiciously  _ Potter-like _ at the end of the Great Hall?” Each one of her exclamations were wailed out with a shrill, pitched cadence. Pansy’s feigned-distraught expression contorted momentarily before it finally fell slack, a knowing look taking over in its stead as she raised her brows. “I do believe, my sweet, that that is nothing short of obsession.”

He was forced to do nothing but glare at her angrily for a long, tired moment before Blaise’s slow-clap cut through the tense silence. “Bravo, Pans,” he drawled out. “That was by far the most spot-on Draco impression I have seen thus far.”

Pansy swept herself into a half-bow from where she remained seated, ruby-red lips curling into a mirthful smirk all the while. “Thank you, thank you. I’ve been practicing, if you couldn’t tell.”

“Fuck you.” Draco’s assertion lacked any real venom behind it; his words sounded more tired and annoyed than anything else. Lips curled into what he hoped was a threatening scowl (though Pansy quickly whined that _ ‘you need to stop pouting when you’re pissed off, Drac’ _ ) before he exhaled a resigned scoff and propped his elbows up upon the table. “I am not obsessed. Potter might be, but I’m not.”

“Okay, okay, right. We believe you,” Blaise cut in before Pansy could instigate another squabble. He even cast the girl a subtle look--to which she scowled and crossed her arms in protest. “Still, though.” As Blaise’s tone softened, Draco lifted his head to give the other a reluctant frown. “Do you think it’s a good idea to let him bother you like that? Surely, there has to be someone you can reach out to about Mister Potter digging up your personal information.”

Draco grimaced; theoretically, he could. He knew there were options--but then again, trying to worm his way through the labyrinth of HR with complaints about the wizarding world’s saviour, no less, seemed even less possible than counting each individual grain of sand on a single beach. “Yeah,” he murmurs after a moment. “I think there are ways, certainly.” He knew he didn’t sound entirely convincing, but it was as much as he could muster. A disconcerting silence fell over them as Draco ducked his head down, picking at a stray thread fraying off of the hem of his sleeve. He hated the looks of pity he knew were being cast upon him by both his friends and in his stubbornness, the Malfoy heir refused to meet either of them. 

He was thankful when Pansy finally shattered the suffocating quiet. “Oy, you know what we should all do?” The question was enough to pique Draco’s curiosity, head lifting to eye her suspiciously. When her red lips widened into a grin that threatened to split her porcelain features in half, he couldn’t help but tilt his head to provide her with rapt attention. “We should go clubbing. There’s a beautiful new gay bar out in Soho.” Perfectly manicured fingers clasped tightly together upon the table in excitement as she leaned closer to both boys. “I can finally introduce you to my girl.”

_ “Your girl, _ hm? I see you’ve finally made it official,” Blaise commented dryly, though his own smirk was full of life. “I’ll never say no to a night out. Drac?”

And suddenly, both sets of eyes were on him all over again. All jokes aside, Draco had yet to properly enthrall himself into a place solely dedicated to the queer scene; the trauma of his own journey with sexuality or whatever the hell it was had been a particularly tumultuous one--and while the last few years had afforded him with the ability to hesitantly step foot into his own, a gay club seemed so… daunting. He blinked owlishly once--then twice--before finally clearing his throat. “Ah--yeah. Yeah, that sounds. Fucking wonderful, actually.” He attempted to inject what little remained of his trademarked Malfoy swagger into his hoarse voice.

It must have been convincing enough, for Pansy and Blaise’s expressions immediately lit up. “Perfect!” Blaise exclaimed with a low chuckle. Pansy reached out to clasp a hand tightly around Draco’s bicep, forcing the blonde to wince as her nails dug into the delicate fabric of his sweater.

“Oh, Drac, you  _ must _ let me do your makeup,” she crooned, letting her head flop properly against his shoulder.

The Malfoy heir only managed a tired groan in response, impending migraine throbbing ever so slightly behind his eyes. On one hand, a night out would serve as a much-needed distraction from the situation he and Potter had found themselves tossed into. But on the other… just  _ what _ in Merlin’s name had he gotten himself into?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gently dusts off this fic... hi friends! i know its been a hot minute since i last updated, but i hope everyone's been doing well! the pandemic has had me going stir-crazy and after a long hiatus, i've decided to return to this fic and see where i can pick it back up from where we left off. i now have a writeblr that has helped me stay motivated, so check me out @ofdivinities if you want sneak peeks and updates! 
> 
> i know the boys didn't interact at all in this chapter but... we are a slowburn so strap up! next time around, we will hopefully get some good good drarry content (eye emojis.)
> 
> stay safe out there and as always, kudos + comments are always appreciated!


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